Holding Out

Okay, you want the bad news first?
After nearly two years of not smoking, I thought I could handle the occasional "out at the bars" cigarette. Now I've started lightly smoking and I couldn't be more pissed at myself. I mean, all that hard work lost. Grr.
On the upside, I called my old doctor in Wisconsin and his nurse practitioner called in a prescription for Zyban to the Cambridge Walgreens. I will be fully quit again within a couple of weeks.
For the time being, I'm existing in kind of a smoker's limbo. I follow all my old habits (coffee and smoke, smoke after completing work project, etc.) but it's like I'm a zombie, re-treading familiar territory without passion or conscious thought. And for some reason, I'm not too worried about my mom finding out, even though she will pitch a fit, but I am mortified my roommates will catch on. Go fig.

Whew. Now here's the good news. I am moving at the end of the month, to a spacious apartment with two hip chicks. I plan to get into all sorts of rascally situations which can only be fixed by acting gay or pretending I'm my own twin brother. Ah, just kidding Nicole.
The truth is, this is not a lateral move. Much like the Jeffersons, I'm moving on up, in terms of:
-proximity to the T (grasshopper prepares for winter)
-cleanliness (I will learn by example)
-free laundry
-backyard
-big big room with sun

I'll be sure to have stories about moving in, getting to know you, etc. but I may have to change the names of my new roommates in case they google themselves and read something about smelling like pork taco or exfoliating on the carpet (hypothetically.)