On Smoking Cigarettes
I have to carry all this crap around. Keep track of things. The lighter, the matches. Is it windy? Does the car lighter work or has it turned into a cell phone charger? Do I have a glass of iced tea? My iPod? My notebook? What about a pen? Dammit, now I have to go back inside and get a pen. Do I bring my nasty cigarette into my pristine house?
I look like one of those losery sad people when I smoke in the car, with the window cracked, flicking ashes and blasting the air vents to get the smell out, just like I did when I was in high school and drove my dad’s Chrysler around with all four windows down in the middle of winter. One time I flicked the butt out the driver’s window and it came back through the backseat. That was fun.
I recycle my cigarette boxes. But first I take the plastic sleeve off. So many bits and bobbins to track, again.
Every portion of the day is measured out whether it can fit another smoke into it. When I finish this chapter. After I read this. Once I drop off the kids here. While I drink my coffee. Blah blah blah. It feels like shift work. No wonder so many nurses and waitstaff smoke.
Don’t sleep with your nicotine patch on. Especially if you don’t want to recall your ‘vivid, disturbing’ dreams.
I’m one of those hateful people who can smoke for breakfast. And who wants to light another one while she’s still working on a lit one. This is why I’m always quitting.