giving up on giving up
a few years ago i gave up smoking because my boyfriend at the time (a non-smoker) asked me to. this makes me a twat of the highest order, but i've done stupider things for love. not many, but i have.
with tedious predictability i cracked after three months when we had a huge argument and i smoked just to spite him. yeah, that must have really got under his skin, watching me damage my own lungs, take that you selfish bastard, i'm lighting another deathstick.
i've given up again*, and am now trying to work out why. early death ? still to young to care really, sorry. brown fingernails ? i'll wear nail varnish and be safe in the knowledge it can never, ever be as bad as my friend odge who SHAVES the brown calluses from his index and middle fingers of his right hand because there's no other way to shift them.
"coming down to the seaside, odge ?"
"yep, just give me a second to shave my fingers."
"yep, just give me a second to shave my fingers."
voice like an ninety ear old ex-con in the mornings ? i call it husky, thanks.
it all came down to one thing, and that is a short story i read recently, which listed - this being the non-fiction part of the story -alongside all the usual blah, the more unusual side-effects of fighting the nicotine nemesis.
insomnia. mild dyslexia. hyper-reality, the strange dreamlike state you get just before a huge panic attack. every virus going. teariness or at least, being on the verge of. inability to focus. fear.
for some reason, this appealed to me, this list of strange ailments.
that and not having a mouth like a wrinkled up anus in my forties.
*it has been seven days.
