Over the weekend I relapsed and smoked a cigarette, putting me right back into the noxious, gray wastes of the addictive cycle, where anything and everything under the sun makes me long for a smoke. Just one. Good God, at times I’m sure I would birth children just to sacrifice them for a fucking cigarette. Just one.
It’s been five years since I told myself I could have just one. Since I assured my friend-who-happened-to-be-a-girl that, hell yes, I could have just one. That, unlike my parents, my uncles, my grandparents and friends, unlike all those other unlucky bastards throughout history, I had self-control, thank you very much. I could quit, I assured her, whenever I wanted to.
At the time she smiled her best, predator’s smile. “I’m gonna get you addicted,” she promised. It was one of the few promises she kept during the long, slow course of our co-dependent “friendship.”
Tag: personal: authorial bitching: reminiscence:
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