A good day to die.

Alas, I have not died, thereby ruining another perfect occasion. Oh, wait, I have no interest in dying, unless I'm guaranteed to come back as an ambulatory corpse a la Dickie.

I'm surprised by how well I handled Scott's first full day of absence from Houston. I didn't break down, or even come close to it, unlike yesterday. I did get some good news re: pops, which helped a lot, and Scott called to let me know that he arrived in New Zealand safely. I even managed to go grocery shopping (wherein I resumed my nascent vegetarianism, seeing as how there are no outside dinners planned for the immediate future that would require me to push my dietary/ethical notions aside), exercise, and write. I even took the first steps towards quitting cigarettes, kinda, in that I haven't already smoked an entire pack.

I have serious doubts about my willingness to give up tobacco. Shit, I always have, and now it's not just a matter of addiction. I've admitted for years that I am terribly addicted to tobacco, but until I got home to half a pack of Chesterfields, I could handle the regular nicotine fits, more or less. Once I was able to smoke at my leisure- and you all know I love leisure- I realized, not for the first time, that I may very well be willing to take the risks of smoking for a while longer simply because I love smoking. That said, I have to try to cut back, and I think I can do that. We shall see, won't we?

In other news, I know own one of the most comfortable pairs of pants I've ever worn, which are some BDUs my brother left me. And they're laden with one of my favorite things ever, namely pockets.

Un-fuckin'-believably, life seems almost decent right now. Emphasis on "almost."

D.A.S.

P.S. If you're reading this, Elspeth, I have no doubt you would be a wonderful writer. Shit, if I can do it, someone of your charm, wit, and ability certainly can.