Tourettes: Winners Never Quit

The Care Bears had better watch their backs



It was one of those mornings where I woke up confused and disoriented…devoid of coordination, motor skills and rational thought.

I missed a step on the way down to the kitchen. I then proceeded to spill my coffee all over the counter.

I also over-sugared, and I’m sweet enough as it is.

Crap on a hockey stick.

The shower decided to play evil mind games with me, giving me two options: scalding hot or freezing cold. Lord knows I could usually use a cold shower, but that’s more a figurative thing.

I opted for flesh burning hot.

Piece of monkey shit.

I left the house late, forgot my cell phone and spent an hour scraping ice off my windshield.

Every dumb bastard on the face of the earth was in front of me on my commute, driving 10-30 miles below the speed limit, because two days ago it rained or something. I really knew I was in trouble when I noticed the handicap tag hanging on the rearview mirror of the car swerving between two lanes, directly in front me. She, of course was a part of the “Greatest Generation” and therefore, older than dirt. She was also on her cellphone and applying lipstick simultaneous to “driving.” I’m fairly certain that she was also doing her taxes.

Directly in front me.

Jesus Harold Christ.
Goddammit all to Hell.

Someone took my parking spot at work, so I had to park around back and hike through the rigorous January cold to get to my fabric lined den of despair. A large pile of work was sitting on my chair, just waiting for my arrival.

Why the chair? I have a perfectly good desk, perfect for putting things on. Putting it on my chair will not make me notice any quicker.

The steaming pile of work not sitting on my desk, of course, was a hot project. That meant working at the speed of light to meet the unfeasible deadline set forth by another.

Son of a bitch.
Biscuit-eating fart bubble.

It’s a translation project, so I’m staring at five different foreign languages, of which I know none, blindly cutting and pasting with an imaginary gun at my head.

Suck my White Ass.
Merci du tabagisme.

Ellie from Product Development can’t use her inside voice, and Dan from Design’s cell phone is on it’s last dying breath, resulting in an annoying *Bee-Boop* every five minutes. The combination is like a paper cut on my ear drum.

können Ihre Füße verwandeln in auspumpen.
Crap-flinging chowder-licker.


And through it all, the only thing I can think about is how much I’d enjoy a cigarette right about now.

J’essuie mon âne avec le jour.
danke für das Rauchen nicht.

Growing up, my dad always said, “Winners never quit, and quitters never win.”

los ganadores nunca paran
gagnants non jamais stoppés
Sieger nie beendigt
vincitori non rinunciati mai

I don’t want to be a quitter. I love smoking. I love to smoke. If I died of emphysema tomorrow, I’d still love smoking.


I don’t want to die of emphysema tomorrow. Or the next day, for that matter.


Cockleberry crunch.
Ass-flaming poople berry.
Merde sur un baton.

In my lifetime, I’ve smoked somewhere around 175,213 cigarettes, give or take. That can’t be good.

So I’m a quitter. Good-bye, Flavor Country.

Because I’m old enough to know better.

Gracias por no fumar.

Today I hate the world and everything on it, especially cute and heart warming things. I want to strangle a wood sprite, and eat a unicorn.

The Care Bears had better watch their backs.

Fucking fucker.


I can only imagine how day two’s gonna be.



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