It's my two-week anniversary!

Two whole weeks. It's thrilling; it's exhilarating; my life began anew two weeks ago.

(If you even think I'm referring to the anniversary of a relationship, your reading comprehension skills could obviously use a little bit of work. Or a lot.)

No, no. I'm not dating anyone. I'm still doing the world a favor by being single. When I get tired of being generous, perhaps I'll go back to doing what I do best: finding the wrong guy, ignoring my knowledge that he's the wrong guy, proceeding to build a dysfunctionally detached relationship that is devoid of all human feeling, and then screwing him over royally because I don't like the whole breaking-up part of the deal.

Anyway, I'm digressing. Back on track, today is the two-week anniversary of the first day in my life when I truly wanted a cigarette. Don't get me wrong. There were plenty of moments over the course of the past two years when I wanted a cigarette, but the solution was always simple: wait a little bit, then smoke. When the meeting's over, when the roommate decides to stop attacking my head with a hairbrush, when I remember that I still have to attend classes that are entirely lacking in substance, when I realize I'm going to miss my deadline (no pun intended--I hate puns) for the big myocardial infarction, when I realize I'm lost in a foreign city for the tenth time that year, etc. (How was that for a sentence fragment? Huh? Huh?! Screw you, eighth-grade English and your damn sentence diagrams!)

As you can tell, there were plenty of times when I wanted a cigarette. The thing was, I wanted a cigarette and then I smoked one. Very simple, really. Desire --> fulfillment of desire. Basic human tendency.

But two weeks ago, I decided to do something very different. I decided to say "No!" No more would I fulfill that desire to kill myself in small increments (except by not sleeping and gradually adding more and more stress to my life). No more would I willingly inhale carcinogens and toxins in such high concentrations. I did the impossible: I quit smoking.

And I quit smoking for a really fun reason. It's not so much that I wanted to. Ask anyone who quits; very few are going to say they were tired of having their feel-good neurotransmitters boosted by the nicotine contained in that deadly, disease-inducing smoke. Very few are going to say they were tired of that extra burst of stimulant inhaled with each breath. No, no. Smoking feels nice. (Despite what your lungs may tell you, just go for willing suspension of disbelief and believe me.)

So why did I quit? I wasn't sick; I don't have emphysema, chronic bronchitis, or cancer (that I know of (yet)).

I was reading about smoking. Before all of you activists out there get really excited, please note that I was not reading anti-smoking literature, nor was I reading research about the dangers of smoking. I was reading "The Ethics of Smoking" by Robert E. Goodin and "The Ethics of Addiction: An Argument in Favor of Letting Americans Take Any Drug They Want" by Thomas Szasz. And, funny enough, the authors of those two articles gave me the perfect excuse to keep smoking forever.

Goodin's reasoning veritably screamed out, "You can't blame the smokers! They're ADDICTED! Hell, they can't even give informed consent for killing themselves when they smoke. They're so addicted they just don't have a choice. Poor smokers, those schmucks. . ."

And I was pissed off. I'm reading. . . reading. . . still reading. . . and then thinking. . . thinking. . . still thinking. . . and then pissed off. How dare that guy say I don't know what I'm doing? That I'm too addicted to be held liable for my actions? Damnit, I knew what I was doing and I knew I was headed down a road toward a myocardial infarction and no one was going to take that away from me!

So what did I do? I got stubborn. I mean, I was already stubborn, but I decided to show it.

I decided to quit smoking. Not because I wanted to. Not because I was concerned about my health. Not even because I wanted to screw over the tobacco industry. But because I wanted to prove that I was not addicted, that I had control, and that those authors could take their arguments and shove 'em.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go make some coffee to celebrate my anniversary of non-addiction.

(You should find this amusing: I didn't go through any physical withdrawals when I quit smoking--no headaches, no shakiness, no increased appetite, no anything. But if I go three or more hours without consuming a significant amount of caffeine, I think my head is going to implode. How's that for addiction?)

The Sixteen-Hour Saga

What you are about to hear is no easy tale to tell. It was an epic journey, the duration of which lasted sixteen hours. Sixteen whole hours. (Approximately. I'm not really sure precisely when it started. So, sixteen hours, give or take.)

[Are you all scared yet? We know my habit of taking three-minute interactions and turning them into fifty-page dissertations. What ever shall I do with sixteen hours of fodder for this entry?!]

Let us start with a common understanding of reality. There are five things one can do while a college student:
1) Go to class.
2) Go to work.
3) Do work.
4) Watch Law & Order.
5) Sleep.

And the most sacred of these five things is the last: Sleep. When we aren't sleeping, we're thinking about sleep. When we are sleeping, we're wondering when we'll next be able to sleep. When we're working, we're hurrying to finish so we can sleep. And when we're at work, we're wishing our parents were rich so we could be at home sleeping. (No one touches Law & Order. It was a close second for "most sacred activity," barely being beat out by "sleep." When we're watching Law & Order, we are not thinking about sleep. (Unless it's Law & Order: CI, in which case we're probably almost asleep already.))

This week was a bad week for sleep. I averaged four hours of sleep per twenty-four period, but that in no way means that those four hours were consecutive. I pulled my first all-nighter of the semester, which was also a first in its implementation of caffeine pills. At the same time that I realized that the caffeine pills were worth every cent, I also recognized that my roommate would be quick to steal them to prevent my fulfilling my plan to have a heart attack before graduating.

(I feel the need to digress for a moment. Most of you knew of my plan to suffer a fatal myocardial infarction by the age of twenty, and you also know that my plan obviously failed. In an attempt to keep up my spirits and sense of optimism, I have moved the deadline back to graduation, which gives me until May to induce my own death through the use of stress, American cuisine, and caffeine.)

Back on track, we can all agree that the most sacred use of a college student's time is to sleep, right? Alright. With that in mind, when do college students most like to sleep? Why, Saturday morning of course. Not only are they sleeping off their hangovers from Friday night, but they're also resting up for one more night of partying before cramming all of their homework into a one-hour session on Sunday afternoon.

Last night, Friday night, Minison and I had a roommate bonding experience. We got lost on the way to Applebee's due to the damn traveling construction that can't just afflict one exit ramp but has to keep moving further down the freeway. Then we watched Law & Order: SVU, and finally we watched Rumor Has It. By the time we were done thoroughly wasting our Friday night (also a ritual sacred enough to make the list), it was midnight.

What did this signal? Well, it was now officially Saturday morning. And what do we do on Saturday morning, kids? That's right! We sleep!

So I went to bed. At midnight. And it was beautiful. I read a few pages of Titanic by Christopher Durang and then I was out. (Incidentally, if you're looking for some light reading with great potential to stimulate valuable intellectual debate, read some of Christopher Durang's plays. They're hilarious and yet raise important questions.)

Guess how long I slept. Just guess. I dare ya. I dare ya. Come on. Guess. . . . Chicken! Just guess!

Nope. That's wrong.

Wanna guess again? Wanna guess? Huh? Huh!?

Fine. Don't. I see how it is.

I suppose I'll just go ahead and tell you if you won't be a good sport and play along. Loser.

I slept sixteen hours. Sixteen whole hours. (Approximately.)

I went to bed at midnight and I woke up at noon. Only I didn't know it was noon until I got out of bed. (Shut up. I can add and subtract. I know that midnight to noon is only twelve hours. So just shut up and keep reading before you start throwing a hissy fit. Know-it-all.) I got up, brushed my teeth, finished the Durang play, and gleefully went back to sleep.

It was beautiful. It was the epitome of rightness. The world was in balance, everything right where it belongs. I was asleep and I was having the best sleep: not only was it Saturday, but it was also that sleep where you wake up for just long enough that when you go back to sleep, you sleep more peacefully than you ever imagined possible.

So then, guess how much longer I slept. Guess. You know you wanna. Oh, for caffeine's sake, just guess!

Can you subtract? Because if so, this should be really damn easy. What's the title of the post? So how many hours do you think I slept total? Sixteen hours. Very good. Now, how many hours did I sleep before waking the first time? If you don't know, just scroll back up a little bit. That's right: twelve hours. Now what is sixteen minus twelve? That's correct, dipshit; it's four! Good work!

So I woke up at four, right as Mini was jumping out of bed, or so the sound led me to believe. And I woke up in a good mood. I mean, a good mood. Why, you ask? Because I slept sixteen hours. Sixteen whole hours. (Approximately.) As the ever-wise fourteen-year-old would put it, "Like, duh!"

Saturday morning as it was meant to be used. (And afternoon, I suppose.) It was a glorious day. I highly recommend your emulating it.

Do you ever wonder

what would have become of you and your life if you had made just one different decision?

For instance, what would have been different if you had been smart enough to conduct a thorough college search before applying to that party school up the road, when you had no interest in even partying and therefore could claim no defense but ignorance when you were asked why you were at that school? And let's face it, ignorance isn't really a good defense when people still like to self-delude by thinking that college students possess at least a requisite amount of knowledge or brightness.

Or alternatively, what would have happened to your life had you not dated that oh so not-so-handsome guy who just swept you off your feet (as in pulled the rug out from underneath you and caused your ass to collide with the concrete floor in a way that can be described only as pelvis-crushing)? Would you still contemplate celibacy? Would you still have considered converting to Catholocism for the sake of maintaining hope that some day you could escape the dating game by becoming a nun?

You might even ask yourself how much better your life would be if you had just bothered to talk to a few people in your major before you committed yourself to the hell of their blissful idiocy. At least then you would have known to what you would be subjecting yourself on a daily basis. Namely, maybe you wouldn't have been surprised when your peers asked, "Like, is the invisible people, like, is they, like, like the invisible hand? Like, is they, like, like the ones guiding the money?"

Or, then there is the question that hits me like a brickwall with every person who walks through the office doors: How much would my life instantly improve if I had chosen to come out of Melinda Gates' uterus rather than my mother's? I wouldn't need this job, nor would I be at this university, and life would be just spectacular--or so a consumerist culture such as our own would have us believe. After all, what is to stop life from being wonderful when your dad is Bill Gates and has Bill Gates' net worth?

After spending some time contemplating my life, and how it might be different if I were capable of making good decisions, I have come to the following conclusions. And I am now going to share those conclusions with you, regardless of whether you'd like to hear them or can benefit even slightly from them. Why? Free will, damnit. Close the window if you're that bored.

Insight #1: It's not going to change. Your mind should be thinking, "Pronoun without an antecedent. What is 'it'?" Good question. "It" is anything and everything. Your financial status, your stress level, your relationship problems, your inability to do anything right, the list could go on and on. What you need to know is simple: None of it is going to change (unless it somehow gets much, much worse).

Insight #2: You should stop wondering about those past decisions. Once you have embraced Insight #1 and acknowledged that your life can only get worse from this point on, there is no point in wondering about how things could be different. Unless, of course, you're one of those sick, sick, individuals who enjoys day-dreaming about your own demise, in which case I highly recommend thinking about how much worse your life could be. For each bad relationship in your past, imagine that your heart has been ripped from your chest and trampled by elephants; for each disappointment in your life, just think about much you deserved it because good things never come to people like you; and for each time you've ever failed, remind yourself that hope is pointless because you're a hopeless failure and always will be. Of course, if you prefer to maintain some semblance of a positive self-image, ignore that recommendation.

Insight #3: Never, ever, under any circumstances, should you be stupid enough to listen to the advice of a self-professed screw-up. If you listen to relationship advice from me, you obviously haven't been paying attention. The day I tell you about a functional relationship (to which I am a party) will be the day my favorite animated characters (Stan, Kyle, Cartman, and Kenny) are appointed to the president's cabinet. The day I quit overbooking myself and master those little skills referred to as "time management" will be the day I finally have that myocardial infarction that I am so joyously awaiting.

Really, now. I hope you don't actually pay attention to me, because I refuse to be held liable for the results.

Think for yourselves, people.

Coming soon: Allison's Advice Column: How to Appear to Be Succeeding in Life Without Ever Giving Up on Your True Calling: Failure. Feel free to contact Allison with your questions as soon as possible. She'll be sure to help you out to the best of her abilities. If you fail to see the ambiguity in the prior sentence, then consider yourself warned that Allison is not responsible for the actions you take as a result of her advice. She makes no guarantees and in fact thinks you'd have to be a fool to listen to her; she merely acknowledges that the world is full of fools.