Robyn Wilder’s description of being an ex-smoker is perfect.

I am a retired cigarette enthusiast, which brings with it the following woes:

• Getting up from my desk at the end of the day and all my joints cracking at once because cigarette breaks are the only breaks I know
• Dreaming that I had a cigarette, and waking up all a-panic
• A sudden passion for biscuits
• Having to ransack the house for a lighter when I want to light a candle
• Unquenchable Haribo Tangfastic addiction
• The three seconds between me telling a smoker I don’t smoke anymore, and them inevitably telling me about all the times they’ve tried to give up
• Those awkward silences at the pub that you can’t break by just fucking off outside for a cigarette
• The fact that my risk of emphysema and various cancers is only slightly reduced. Slightly reduced? Are you kidding me? I have a pot belly now
• Social acceptance from smug, evangelical ex-smokers.

I stopped smoking two years ago today. I don’t miss the cigarettes, but I do miss being thin.

Probably not one for lunchtime, but here’s one for the men: why one man has decided that he’s going to start washing his hands after he urinates.

Fidopiastis says he’s heard all of my hand-washing protestations before, and to all of them he has the same response: “Perianal sweat.”

Fidopiastis’s message isn’t getting much attention, it seems: I’ve had entire nights out where as far as I can tell, I’m the only person who bothers washing after using the bathroom.

[Via The Browser]