I’m thinking about the fact that I’m addicted to cigarettes. I started smoking 35 years ago. So, by my calculations, I had my first puff at two. Shit, that can’t be right. Hold on. Thirty-five add on 17. That makes 52. Well that can’t be bloody right either. That would mean, I was….. God, I’m 52!
When did that happen? Who did this to me? Some bastard will pay for this when I get my hands on them.
It’s outrageous. I want to complain to someone. Anyone. I don’t feel like 52. I don’t look like 52. Well, when I think about it…
Sometimes, when I get up in the morning a rather strange phenomenon occurs. I don’t really know when it started but it’s slightly irritating. You see, there was a time in the past – the fairly distant past, if the above calculations are to be believed – when I could get up and go out. Just like that. No messing. No waiting for my face to return to normal. I would look in the mirror and shrug and go, like some new shampoo commercial for when you’re feeling hot.
Now, I have to kind of get up a bit earlier and linger about the house for a while until my face settles into all the right places and all the pillow marks iron themselves out. Then, when I look in the mirror again I can say,
‘Hello there. Where have you been hiding, you pretty thing?’
And I seem to be needing glasses too.
All this has nothing to do with addictions. Except maybe, don’t smoke. Ever. Don’t start. Ever. Or your face might need to resettle every morning.
And it’s bad for you.
52!…..I’m in shock. I need a fag. (That’s a cigarette, to all you US patrons. No, really, it is.)
And, really, don’t smoke. Because it’s a bugger to quit.