He fights his way up from the murky depths of fitful slumber, and sits up in what appears a vast ocean of twisted sheets and cold, rippled waves of bed-linen. Some nights, it’s all he can do to stay sane, even human: the craving has taken him.
He needs a fucking cigarette. Real bad. Like I do now. Some people think it’s easy to just quit, give it up, ditch the lighter, save the old organs et al. But it’s not, really. It’s a battle, albeit an easy one compared to life’s other little trials and tribs. Only a smoker can know how hard it is not to just have one, just this once. How hard it is to get by without buying a box, stopping at any corner you can just to grab a loosie. And then just buy one box, just one, you won’t even carry it around, you know, just so you can light one up at the end of a stressful day. Just one.
Yes, I’m trying to quit. And of course, I’m winning, I really don’t need to smoke. But I like to, sometimes, so I reserve the right to light up the occasional cigarette. But I’m past the worst of it, definitely, and I can go a week without craving. Maybe it’s cos I’m not drinking (for now), so we’ll see how it goes when I recover from the post-holiday take-stock-and-whine-about-how-much-it-all-cost period.
So anyway, Edgar Langeveldt came by the studio this morning, and I was craving pretty bad, so I was like, yeah that dude smokes. My heart leapt with joy, ya know, so I went up to the cat, and I’m like, cool as you like, “You smoke, right?”. And he’s like, “Yeah man” but I can tell at once he ain’t got jack the way his eyes light up and he’s all hopeful. There I was trying to bum off him, ffs.
I’ll have to walk to the corner for a loosie at lunch-time.