I'm going away for the weekend, up the country, heading out for fresh air. Pot will be smoked, I know. Sam says it is the reason I’m going. It's not, it's beautiful up there. But, I'm worried about my quitting smoking, it's been three days today since I had a cigarette and I already feel fitter and healthier.
I don’t want to smoke. I don’t want to smoke.
I'm sure, I'll smoke pot. I'm sure, I won't be back on the fags. I’m guessing, saying “sure” almost ensures it comes true. So it's a positive affirmation, of sorts.
I'm taking my buddy Anthony, you know the third one of my long lost best friends, the one that's not dead. Damaged, been in rehab, been in the locked away. I'm taking him up to Bolago, for the weekend, for the first time in years. He drinks like a fish, by his own admission, but we'll just be sitting around, so what does it matter.
Be back Monday.
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