Dear Chuck Norris, I Quit! Part X: The Daily Grind

I stretched my arms above my head in an unfolding "V" motion as I waited for my coffee. My accompanying yawn was anything but modest. My eyes felt hard and sandy but the yawning had made me feel better. So I scratched my chest and yawned again.

"Long night?" A co-worker, RatherLargeTodd, sidled up next to me, grinning with concern.

"Birthday party last Sunday", I mumbled grabbing my coffee from the machine and smiled back. "It was awesome".

RatherLargeTodd crinkled his brow and leaned in towards me. "This past Sunday?", he asked.

I yawned, nodding at RatherLargeTodd.

"But... it's Tuesday now."

I smiled. "Indeed it is, Todd".

RatherLargeTodd tousled my (nonexistent) hair, jostling my brain against my skull. "Atta boy", he said, slapping my back, pushing me forward a bit.

The back slap caused me to not-so-entirely-unintentionally spill the slightest amount of piping hot coffee on him.

His accompanying yelp was anything but modest.

* * * * *

Dear Chuck Norris,

I'm 30.

I spent the better part of this weekend stuffing myself with cake and pie and and beer and whiskey, dancing and singing loudly and off-key in bars.

I had a birthday pie and two (count 'em, two!) birthday cakes. And some birthday cookies. And birthday wings. I had something called “baked potato soup”, some killer lobster bisque, enough potato chips to choke a clysdale and enough Guinness to drown a porpoise.

And before you ask, the answer is yes. I did, in fact, try the veal.

I nearly got in a fight with a guy who tried to insult me by comparing me to Barack Obama. When I wasn't insulted by the comparassion, he suggested I perform an anatomically impossible act with my front bits. My friend Tim very politely directed him to the door.

I danced with a pretty girl and laughed at my own bad dancing, even though she was kind enough not to say a word about it. Instead, she asked me to dance again. And she even let me lead.

All in all, Mr. Norris, I had a great birthday weekend full of fantastic friends, delicious food, wonderful beer, and pie.

It was the best birthday party ever.

For the record, I'm 245 days smoke free.

That's 5,880 hours
or 352,800 minutes
or 21,168,000 seconds

Or about 8 months, if you're a big picture sort of guy.

So far, my 30s have been entirely smoke free. I'm got about 4 months until I reach the 1 year mark and, I gotta tell you, Chuck, I'm feeling pretty good about it.

Here's to 8 months of distance from the demon.

Cheers!

Your #1 fan,

Drew