Someday I’ll write about smoking.* I can’t write about it now, since I still tend to deny it. But someday I’ll write about why and how and when I smoke. I’ll write of my love-hate relationship with it. How I know it kills, and I know I can give it up. But how sometimes, it is fucking convenient. Like a four-inch crutch. Like the imaginary delusional effect of stilletos (deadly?) only between four fingers. Like how it is ugly, but how it is a necessity for company where there is none. To keep certain people in. Like how it is a convenient excuse to escape awkward shared hotel room situations. Like how it can make my stomach turn exactly the way I need it to. Things like that. I even had a kiss that tasted of cigarettes once, and it still stays in my memory, albeit with no fire or no passion. I just tend to remember it, it might be something that I’ll also write about later on. But not now. For now I just think of these thoughts whilst I light up one more stick against my will.

*Properly, not recklessly hewed from my personal diary like this


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