...dropped with a thud

Image by Steven DePolo; CC license Attribution

It's over, stick. I don't love you anymore. I used to, you know, for nearly 15 years. A long on-and-off affair that was drawn out to it's(my) last dying breath.

I remember being ten, on the playground after school. I said to a friend "I'm going to smoke when I'm 18." It was like "when I grow up..." but more concrete, a much more attainable goal. No one in my family smoked, but they were lame. I wish I could remember what made me make that statement, but I was right. By 18, I was smoking and had been for 3 years.

That was the beginning. This is the end. I've said that so many times, but I have this sense of inspiration from Dude kicking his habit and finality from the last cigarette in the pack last night. It's so very over. Anything else after this point is like self-abusive ex-sex: you do it because it hurts and it is a lie and it is so very not good for you. Anything else is backpedaling and weak.

thud, bud.

W.I.