Thursday, 17 April 2014

98 days and counting

So it's been 98 days, 22 hours and 57 seconds since I had a cigarette.

You know. Approximately.

I miss smoking. I want to smoke. I still want to smoke. Every day there is a moment where I really really want to smoke.

Now is one of those moments.

I can't eat food as I'm on a diet. I can't go running because it's dark outside. I'm trying to keep my mind off things by writing and have hammered out 2000 words of my book. I'm doing what I should do. And all I can think about is that feeling when you suck the smoke into your lungs.

Sometimes fags taste foul, even to someone who has smoked for 23 years. Sometimes they catch your throat and they fill your lungs and you look at it like: "What the FUCK am I doing?"

But sometimes they taste just right. They scratch an internal itch somewhere at the top of your lungs. They calm the jangling of the nerves and they taste good. Really really good.

Smoking is a ritual. A meditative process. A comfort.

I want a bastard cigarette and I want it now.

But I don't suppose I will. Self denial is something that has been a long time coming to my life. My inner teenager is stropping away as we speak. I want, I want, I want.

Shut the fuck up teenage Deb. Just shut up.

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