It’s unbeleivable the hold that those little white paper tubes, which in modern day vernacular are refered to as “cigarettes”, have on the unfortunate soul who dares ignite and inhale through too many of them over too long a course of time. To sum up the feeling of the first week of quitting smoking in one thought,
”it feels like I have the talons of an eagle (not a regular, everyday eagle, but - have you ever seen “lady in the water” by M. Night Shyamalan? the eagle from the end of the movie that you only get to see through the creepy ambiance of the water of the pool? THAT kind of eagle…) piercing through my flesh and bones, while flapping its massive wings and trying to rip my fucking head off, and the only glimmer of release is to make a deal with the devil himself and again ignite the tube, inhale, exhale, ash, repeat - until I am old, cancer ridden, and one of those curious old ladies who carts her oxygen tank around in a basket with wheels with one hand and lights up another with the other hand.”
Now, for the sake of possibility that this task can be any more HEINOUS than it already is, imagine that each nico-tube (what I am going to refer to now when refering to the aformentined hell in a stick) produces a response even more pronounces than pavlov’s proverbial dog to the dinner bell. Even the word - “ciiiiiigg-ahhhhhhhh-retttttte” - begins to romanticize with its tri-sylablic smoothness as it rolls off the tongue and lingers in the air along with the odor its previous incarnations have left plastered to my office walls. Today is day 6. after tomorrow, it will ahve been a solid week since I bid adieu to the latest attempt of my subconscious to leap to the other side ahead of schedule. au reviour Nico-Tube! au rivour! a riveur! a river!