'The Royal Tenenbaums' is a film that makes excellent use of the color pink.

It has many other redeeming qualities as well.

I really liked it. Even Gwynneth Paltrow was good. I deem the film Anderson's best yet.

Do we have to launch into a large paragraph that discusses the films themes of family, redemption, and scarring both physical and emotional?

No. No we do not.

One thing I will say though is I really appreciated what Royal said as he was walking through the park with Etheline. In reference to his family, he said something to the effect of "I love mixing it up with this crew." That's pretty much how I want to feel about my own family one day.

I also want a massive New York townhouse. My God.

OK, now, don't get all cynical and negative on me, you fascists, but I had a cigarette on Friday night. Yeah. I knew I would. Actually, it had been in the works, part of the plan, all week. I really was curious to see what it was like to smoke a cigarette after not having had one for a week.

See, when I quit, I had about a half pack left. I let those ten little smokes survive in my 'thing drawer' in my kitchen, rather than mash them up and scatter them anon the day that I quit. I did this because I wanted them to be there and tempt me. I wanted them there to tempt me and I wanted to resist them.

There are probably certain personality types among those of you reading this who will see and appreciate the logic in that. These are what are known as "crazy people."

Anyway, the time had come Friday night to indulge, finally, and find out whether or not I had been missing anything. I selected a smoke to be smoked, and headed out into the hallway. Thereupon, I immediately ran into a fellow tenant of mine I like to call Ratfaced Tim.

Now, this guy's face is in no way rat-like, but he has annoyed me to the point where I no longer feel guilty ascribing to him rodent qualities. In the past, he has asked me for a cigarette every damn time he saw me, even going so far as to once half-jokingly suggest, while I was standing outside, that I go back into the building and fetch a cigarette for him, and he has knocked on my apartment door to ask if he could "borrow a dollar," leading me to utter the phrase "Don't knock on my apartment door asking for money."

Anyway, Ratfaced Tim appeared before me, just outside my door. I said "Tim, this is your lucky day." He looked at me quizzically, whiskers twitching, no doubt imagining cheese. I went back inside my apartment and returned with the rest of the cigarettes. He actually said to me "Oh, you didn't have to buy me a pack of cigarettes." He actually thought I was giving these to his freeloading ass out of charity, or pity. I told him no, I was quitting, and that he could just have them. He then made some kind of squeeking noise and disappeared through a dark hole.

Finally, I was outside, in the alley behind my building, alone with my tobacco. Just before I was able to strike a match and light the cigarette, an SUV slowly and creepily turned the corner and began to approach. My imagination went into overdrive, and I pictured myself being killed in a drive by shooting as I smoked the first cigarette I'd allowed myself to have in a week. The idea that I would be murdered while partaking in an activity I had just quit in order to preserve my health was delicious.

I was almosy unable to finish that paragraph without using the word 'irony.'

So, about four or five different cars pass me, and I finally get to striking my match.

The first puff: OK, I'm smoking again. This doesn't seem much different at all.

The second: Oh, now I remember! Tobacco has a taste! (Note to non-smokers: You don't really taste the actual tobacco anymore after years of smoking. It is a shame.)

The third: Headrush. Oh my God. This feels like sex.

The fourth: I needed to sit down.

I think I was done with that cigarette in less than two minutes.

I stood up and walked inside. I had done what I was telling myself I was going to do all week: I took the cigarette test, and it was time to tally the results.

Status of Legs: Weak

Stomach: Nauseated

Head: Hurting

Sweat: Cold

Not good.

I entered my apartment. Afraid I was going to puke, I washed my hands to get rid of the smell. I brushed my teeth and swallowed some listerine. I got some ice water and laid down in bed. I lay there for about ten minutes before I call Sally, who scolds me as I knew she would. I let her, as it's just one more thing that makes this experience unpleasant, and I'll take all the unpleasant associations with smoking that I can get.

You probably could have guessed that I was going to say this, but since that night, the constant hunger that I felt, the constant WANT WANT WANT, the need for a smoke, has been crushed. Not completely, of course. I still feel like I want one occasionally, but it is oh so manageable.

I have a great mantra: I'm a non-smoker, and non-smokers don't smoke.

You can buy that slogan from me for $199.95.

I'm at a temp job right now, not the high school. I started writing this an hour ago. I just made ten dollars.