You ever quit smoking? For a year? Five years? A decade?
No. No you didn’t. Because if you ever smoked, you still look at a cigarette in front of you like it’s the other guy on the deserted island turning into a talking hot dog in those old Looney Tunes cartoons. You walk past one of those tall outdoor ashtrays with a nice long butt in it and you turn your head as you walk, track it with your eyes. And your heart beats a little faster. You imagine it– the feeling, the tickly rush over your limbs as you take that first deep drag, hold it in; your head takes off with sparkles and stars and suddenly everything’s going to be just fucking fine. You will never feel that again. You will never even feel “OK” again. If anything remotely adversarial happens you will ascend into an ever-escalating paranoid freakout and blame everyone around you for everything bad that ever happened until you want to murder your own children with your bare hands. And you will never, ever be able to do anything about it. You didn’t quit smoking. You’re just waiting too god damn long for your next cigarette. Fiending for decades while your mind slows and your soul turns into a hard flinchy thing that only knows hate. Friends, family, society, helping people– who gives a fuck. I need to glare out the window and mutter about those who done me wrong. Gonna get them back some day. Once I get the energy.
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