Wouldn't it be nice if right at this moment, I could take all my frustrations - which, when I really think of it, are largely irritations - all the gross things I've internalised since waking up late and on the very wrong side of the bed this morning and release it in a nice puff of smoke.
Yes, I want a cigarette. In all it's glorious tar-filled noxiousness. To make me look as dangerous as I feel. So that I can fool myself into thinking I have a handle on things. Then afterwards I can berate myself on how terrible smoking is, how it helps dull skin and wrinkles along. But I can do that afterwards, after I roam into Uma's character in Pulp Fiction.
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cigarettes are my crutch, but i've managed to hobble around somewhat smokefree for a good few months now. but i've got a few bruises from falling off that proverbial wagon now and then.
i smoke/d to externalise the mess inside.
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