Two years ago, I started a self-improvement initiative called “21 Days”, in which I made personal commitments to myself in three week cycles — the amount of time it takes to break a habit — to give up my vices and live better. In just a few months I was able to quit smoking, make over my diet, and get back on the exercise horse. Reducing my ever-growing To Do list to individual, bite sized goals made it easier (and more fun) to follow through and I was proud to call each round a success. And I haven’t been happier since.

Then, like the champion I am, I quit — and, several empty 21 day cycles later, I was once again lighting up, eating cookies for dinner, and skipping my dates with Billy Blanks. I was back in the habit of bad habits.

Over the last few smoky, chocolate chip-filled, cardio-avoiding weeks, I have wistfully recalled those 63 days of health and happiness and wondered what went wrong — and, even more, what could have gone right had I dedicated my fourth string of weeks to something like “keepin’ on keepin’ on” instead of “throwing in the towel” (at which I am already a pro). What I’ve found is that thinking about positive change is about as useful as kissing my pillow and wishing it would turn into my favorite TV heartthrob. (When I was seven, I slept on a damp pillow for months, only to be heartbroken each morning when I didn’t wake up with Tyler from Life Goes On.)

The point is, my 21 days are back (unlike Tyler, who crashed into a tree in Season 3, Episode 20 — with Corky in tow!). It is now time to act (and wash my pillowcase).  But, this time, before I attack cigarettes, cookies, and cardio, I have a bigger bad habit to break:

Assholes.

Yes, somewhere between my pre-adolescent, fantasy makeout sessions with drunk drivers and packs a day of Delicados, I picked up the worst habit of all: letting people treat me like shit. And while my addiction to sticks of carbon monoxide may be disgusting, there is nothing nastier than a nasty person. And I crave the worst. If the steady stream of douchebags in my life were a supply of cigarettes, I’d have a hole in my throat. (Tyler would’ve hated that.)

So, today I am calling for a 21-day ban of buttheads from my life, with the hope that, in three weeks time, I’ll no longer be jonesin’ for jerks.

I’m not quite sure of how I got hooked on ‘holes. Maybe it was like cigarettes. You have one and think you can quit. Then, suddenly, you smell like an ashtray and your friends are annoyed. At this point, I reek of bad decisions. Something has to change. And it has to be me.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. Assholes are everywhere. They are taking over the planet. Do I plan to spend 21 days as a shut-in, only to make my next goal something like “seeing the light of day” or “changing out of my pajama pants”? No. (I’m keeping these suckers on until there are rips too big for me to wear them to the store.) I know that I can’t completely eradicate assholes from my life. It is, after all, election season. But, I can limit the time I volunteer to spend with them. Even better, I can replace my prick posse with a new batch of nice people. You know the ones — caring, thoughtful, good-hearted folks. It’s been a while, but I think you call them “friends”? And, should an asshole accidentally make his/her way into the mix, I’m also banning tears, fist-waving/soap boxes, and self-pitying monologues about what I do or don’t deserve. Assholes live on that stuff. It’s their drug of choice.

I’ll check in with you in 21 days and let you know what it’s like to live ‘hole-free. Maybe then, I’ll finally be able to quit cigarettes, too. (Cookies, you’re next!)

But, for now, I have some numbers to delete from my phone. And a visit to pay to Tommy Puett.