This morning began the way many of my mornings do now: with Whiskey Kitty launching a small but determined ambush on my hand. She wanted to grab, bite, wrestle. I countered by turning it into a game, gently grabbing her little arm and pulling her onto the bed. Then I remembered she’s still a kitten and not a professional stunt performer. So I surrendered. I let her climb up, slobber on my ear like a tiny Saint Bernard, curl into my neck, and fall back asleep with that soft, motorboat purr. Not a bad way to start a smoke-free day.
Then came the art show.
I bugged mom about it more than I should have until she finally got upset, which is usually my cue that she’s stressed but still going to help anyway. She made some snacks, we loaded up, and off we went. The Whittier Art Gallery really is a great collective and a wonderful gallery to be a member of. There is just one recurring issue: every single time we go there, we get lost. GPS, intuition, street signs, none of it seems to matter. It’s like the gallery exists in a slightly different dimension that you can only access by being mildly confused and ten minutes late.
Eventually, we made it.
Once there, I did what I tend to do: I talked. Maybe a little too honestly. I told people I’ve had cancer. I mentioned I’m a recovering alcoholic. I waited for the awkward silence, the polite nods, the emotional recoil. None of it came. No one seemed bothered. They just listened, nodded, and treated me like a human being who also happens to make art. That felt quietly huge.
I made a short video promoting the gallery, soaked in the energy of the place, and headed out. And here’s something that surprised me: it looks like I may have sold a painting. I don’t know yet for sure, but even the possibility feels like a small win, a little nod from the universe saying, keep going.
Later in the day, I noticed something important. I had a lighter in my pocket. I didn’t need it. I hadn’t used it. I was just carrying it around like a ghost limb, a leftover habit with no real purpose unless I decided to smoke. That realization hit harder than I expected. So I handed the lighter to mom. Just like that. One less escape hatch. One less silent negotiation.
Now it’s dinner time. Ribs and potatoes. Real food, real comfort, real presence. No smoke breaks, no bargaining, no rituals I don’t believe in anymore.
Day 101.
Still here.
Still not smoking.
I got this.
by Dan and Bonkers
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