The Hardest Thing To Do

I broke down and started smoking again. It's the hardest thing to do, quit. That gnawing feeling just never goes away.

Pathetic, I know.

It's mind-numbingly boring too. Back to square one.

Of course, I blame it on my pot dealer, he didn't deliver when he said he would. All going along cruisy, all going along fine and then the bags empty and I just want to kill somebody.

Of course, I really just want to kill myself, not literally, you understand and truthfully I only blame myself, so there you go.

Time to rethink the strategy.

I guess the only way is to give it all up, cigarettes, dope, the lot.

Health, health, health, that's what I've got to think now. Hey?

Maybe? He thinks to himself, with a rye smile. Maybe, he says. But you know he's already gazing around, trying to think of his next scheme, even though he knows it is hopeless.

Deluded? Well, maybe just a little.

Maybe, I could drink more green tea? Maybe that would help?

Rats! He thinks. He knows there is no easy way.

Maybe, I could get a puppy, he thinks.

Maybe, I should just go for a long jog. You can't smoke while you are jogging. Well, I guess it is possible, but certainly not advisable, he thinks.

The phone rings. He jumps. He was running along the Tan, feet on a cushion of air, wind on his face.

Any time after 8, says Guido breezily.

Okay, he says. About fucking time, he thinks. He stubbs out his cigarette in disgust.