trashed on tar

I’m sure smoking didn’t make it easier to people. But when does peopling get better. Cause at three weeks of no smokes, I’m laser murdering almost everyone’s faces.

Oh. You mean suffocation?

You’ll eat this potato not soup, soup then fucking breathe and get the fuck over it

ID (internal dialogue) will be the irrational thoughts about this process. If I get them out of my head maybe they will fucking hush. If I read them out loud as written word, I will see how much of a lunatic these disease packs turn me into.

37 - 15 = 22 37 is my current age. 15 is when I think I began inhaling those fuck sticks. 22 That’s how many years I have been willingly manipulated by cigarettes. I’m done. I want to be done. I’m over it. I want to be over it. I have created this space to vent and write and complain and work out all of these bullshit feelings that come with kicking this. Feel me? Leave comments. Or don’t. It’s not for you, really. So why now? I have the fucking flu. Cheapskate way to manage the first three days without smoking right? This isn’t my first attempt at quitting. I know how grueling those first few days are. Extreme bitch tendencies, snapping at children for laughing, side-eyeing my dogs because they yawned to loud, crying on the carpet because it’s beige and I hate beige. Hating anyone who smiles because they don’t deserve it and they have no idea how lucky they are to never feel as empty and lost as I am in the first 72 hours of not smoking. It’s all bullshit. And this time around I spent the first 72 hours with full body aches so deep I assumed my bones would break from the pressure. A cough as dry as Steven Wright’s stand up that also caused acute, skull-shattering pains upon heaved exhales. Somewhere in the flurry of flu-mania I was also detoxing from nicotine. So thank you flu, I am grateful for your torturous storm. Because cancer is way worse than this. Because cancer makes the flu look like Caillou. Annoying but harmless. I do not want to know what it feels like to have cancer coursing through my body, the heft of the guilt because I simply could not say no. I am not a writer. So don’t judge my prose. I failed many English classes so lay off my shitty grammar. I’m here to vent. Vent with me. Tell me of your struggles or quietly stand on the sidelines and observe the shit show. It’s always personal choice.