This is a post in which I tell you that I want a cigarette so freaking bad.
October 4th is coming up. Some three months later, and if I didn't know smoking one could cause an immediate and dire consequence to my immediate and dire health, I would light one up in a nanosecond. That's right all you fine friends who cheered me on, I am here to tell you that I spent today tossing truths and dares bewtween my two ears, and in the end, the very end, which was approximately 30 seconds ago, I came down on the side of: I sure would smoke if I could. I sure would light one up and love it and smoke it and love it all over its fine tobbaco self.
You just don't understand. I miss it so much.
I noticed the other day that I now smell cigarette smoke when its coming from the lady inside the sedan THREE CARS AHEAD OF ME! What's with that? I'm minding my own business, and my sniffer says--hey, I smell smoke! And I look all around. Then I see her tan arm, so cool, thin, freckled, hanging out the window, tapping the ashes off her cigarette.
I'm embarrassed. I've wandered so far from my beloved habit that it now assaults me from three car lengths.
I need to be glad about this.
I can't be.
I believe I've gained approximately 850 pounds from the combination of starting hormones for a little issue I'm dealing with at the same time as stopping smoking.
The fuck with all of it! I'm thinking of tossing the dice on the table--stopping all medicines EXCEPT cigarettes, and let the cards fall where they may.
Well, you know.
I'm all blustery.
I won't do it.
Except in pixels.
It feels so good to toy with it.
I really wish I could.
I still miss it every day.
That's just wrong.