As of today I haven’t had a cigarette in 6 or 7 weeks.  Losing certainty over the time which has passed is a good thing. Far better than, say, a month ago when the slow stomp of time away from my last smoke had been excruciatingly clear and I was having conversations like this: 

Martha – Hey Frank! You quit smoking? That’s wonderful! How long has it been?

Frank – Thanks, Martha.  It’s been about, let’s see, 4 weeks. Oh – and 2 days. And 14 hours, give or take about 15 fucking minutes, but really, it feels much longer.  Even waaay longer than you’ve had that “cute” freaking mustache on your upper lip. Thank you for asking. Now I can endure the rest of this goddamned eternity thinking, “Gee, it’s swell that Martha really cares about my fucking health!” Sure hope you don’t choke on a bag of nails or anything you cheerful, fucking supportive, bristle-lipped snat…” 

So, things are way better. I’m growing vague on the passage of nicotine-free time and people say Martha is looking much better since she started waxing…