Day 2. I’ve got the shakes.

Last night, I successfully navigated a sushi dinner with a friend. No beer, no sake, even though the waitress was kinda pushy: “Hot sakeeee? So cold out!…..You sure?”

Goddamnit woman, just back the fuck off!

When I thought my friend wasn’t looking, I managed to slip a few packets of low-sodium kikkoman into my oversized fashion bag. My mal-purposed intention was (obvs) soy sauce shooters in the privacy of the overly-sweet scented lavatory. But my friend’s got eyes in the back, side, top of his head and he damanded that I hand them over.

Fine. Killjoy.

Without cable TV, I watched ONCE (sweet! cute! adorable!) and then spent a few hours pretending to read the exhaustive New Yorker profile of the recently deposed O’Neal, while snipping at split ends. I’m determined to regain my status as a nerd of the first degree, but how does one un-fry an egg?

3 am: the Witching Hour

Crisis. I was hurtled awake by a nagging anxiety in the pit of my tum, and I needed to annihilate it. Normally, I’d take a nip (or 4 or 5) of bourbon from the night-flask I keep in a hollowed out copy of Motherless Brooklyn at bed’s side, but clearly that violates the Great Detox plan. And besides, I made quick work of my reserves just before I decided to give up hooch. Irony alert: I was inebriated when I decided to go sober. I’m so complex!

So, I did what any responsible, but sleepless adult would do.

Make chamomile tea with milk and turn a few pages on Catch-22? What the hell is wrong with you? C’mon. Think.

I raided my pig bank to rustle up some scratch for a few cans of mad dog (old dog?) some dog, whatever, and some cheddar flavored bugles. After sinking those bad boys, I sourced my bathroom for the last of the nyquil mixed with the last of the ‘tussin and dropped a klonopin. But before passing out somewhere in the middle of a pile of cat hair, dust mites, and empties, I forgave myself this minor setback. Self-love & forgiveness of one’s transgressions, according to the Four Agreements, is key to self actualization.

Love to you on this most blessed of days.

And I might have to include 1 hr/week for Bill Maher.

But other than that - no TV.

I’m not as bad as I used to be - but that doesn’t really mean much. Measured on a sliding scale against my friends and social acquaintances, I’m just passing with some occasional extra credit (I volunteer! I recycle!) . Measured against the rest of humanity? I’d probably be issued a state-mandated muzzle fitted with an electro-shock collar.

But I’m quirky! In this case “quirky” is a euphemism for borderline personality with a lose grip on anger management, tempered with bouts of mania and a bizarre affinity for self-deprecation and French cheese. Being quirky was fine when I could deftly sublimate this gross character flaw, and use sarcasm and satire to deal with my anger, instead of using anger to deal with my anger.

[redacted sentimental bullshit]

I do this a lot - the reckless episode, the guilt, the reprisal of values and self-worth, the hollow declarations of change, the slacking off with the casual attitude, the reckless episode… Pathological. Up to this point, I’ve been living a farce. Ridiculous. Sham. But I can’t give up hope, we can’t lose hope. So fuck it: I’m going cold turkey for the next 30 days. No booze, no TV, no junk food, no negative thoughts or words (or as few as possible), no being a shit, no being lazy.

According to a friend’s research on the topic, it takes 30 days to form a habit. 30 days to change your life. Plus, imagine what kind of hot little body I’ll be rocking come May 1.