I have had to quit smoking

and I don't know when I'll be able to go back to it. It upsets my stomach too much. I am sad. I miss it.

The nurse at my surgeon's office (her name is Colleen) tells me that it could be up to a year before my body is done recovering from the anesthetic and the surgery, assuming I quit pushing it too far.

Taking things slowly is something which is an ideal for me, rarely realized as my own impatience has been conditioned by years of discomfort at intensity or building tension (yes, I am blaming my ex's, I learned it from them and their inability to function around me)(also, yes, I do get that I am the only common denominator in all of my relationships, that does not make it my fault that most of the men in my life have had no ability to let a moment happen or be without fucking it up or making a joke or breaking the tension and then apologizing lamely). It's a Pavlovian response and will take time to be unlearned.

It's funny, when I got the call that Joe was in jail and began the single oddest and most fucked up summer of my life, I knew that things were different, but I had no idea how different they really were, how much went away that night, how easily lost everything was. And I was nuts, drinking whiskey, sleeping with boys who had girlfriends, not sleeping at all, wearing really odd clothing and hanging out with some of the most disrespectful unethical people (okay, person) I have ever met. (I blame the whisky myself. tequila leaves my discriminating tastes in tact.) I don't hang out with her anymore.

Point is, it took a while for me to realize that I was nuts and why.

This time it's a little less difficult to follow given the straight line leading 3 1/2 inches down from my belly button.

Everything is different. It's just that way. There's nothing I can do about it. My body needs to recover from the sickness from before surgery and then the surgery and the anesthetic and the drugs after the anesthetic and the antibiotics and probably the world's worst cottage cheese, as well.

I am separated from the two people I love most in the world (outside of my parents, of course) because I have no idea "where I'm at" and will likely not have a clue for quite some time. which wouldn't be that big of a deal except that we live in the same house. It is too much to listen to the constant whining of a reformed martyr.

I know to walk. To get into the sun. To eat. To rest. To sleep. To not lift anything for a while (ug). To pet the kitten (I adopted one, she is called Ethel Katherine Humphries. I call her Ethey). To read. To make lists. To learn. To work at my jobs to the best of my abilities. To do some dishes when I can. To clean the litter boxes at least once a week.

"Master, how do I follow The Way?"
"Did you have breakfast this morning?"
"Yes."
"Did you wash your bowl when you were done eating?"
"Yes."
"Well, then."