Counting The Days

It's been 21 days since I've had a smoke.
21 days without a toke
21 days, that's no joke.
21 days without a smoke.

15 days since the wife got fired.
15 days and so far here's what she's accomplished.
She has not made me one dinner. Nor has she cooked for the kids.
She has not, yet, filed for unemployment.
She has not, yet, dealt with her severance package.
She has not, yet, done shit.

She has, however, chastised me for not making good photo copies (she can go to fucking kinkos downstairs next time).
She has complained about how I should be more concerned about the cost of things. She told me this while she was shopping for shoes with a friend. (in her defense, she didn't buy anything or she hid the new boxes).

7 days since I got this dreadful boot on my foot. one week of hobbling around like some fucking frankenstonian gimp. one week of banging the bulky boot on doors and furniture.
do I feel better? nope. the moment I take the thing off, my ankle hurts. my knee is starting to ache from the new method of climbing up and down stairs.

7 days so far. 35 days left.

I need a fucking smoke.