I made a big fucking mistake. I quit smoking. Ever loose a best-est buddy, or a good horse? I feel like someone shot my horse. All day long, I reach in my pocket and the fucking horse is just gone.

Me and my lighter, we still hang out, but it’s not the same, you know? I pull him out, give him a flick and we just stare at each other. We’ve got nothing to say to one another without a smoke to break the ice. I left him at home on a shelf today and looked in on him when I got back this evening. He wouldn’t even look at me.

The cigs well, they just aren’t around anymore. No smoke to wake up with over a cup of coffee. Coffee’s not even the same. The whole mood is wrong. The scent is off, taste, everything. This morning I tried something called teasan, flavored with some African rubber tree bark, or something like that. It was red and smelled like this medicine I was forced to gag down when I was 5 and got pinworms. Some things just stick with you, kicking you in the teeth when you’re down, decades later, I guess.

Food? Not the same. I mean, what’s the point of eating if there’s no smoke to look forward to after you’ve finished. I have no appetite, anymore. People tell you that you’re going to eat a lot, get fat(ter) and it’s all bullshit. I don’t feel like eating ever again. Pizza? Not without a cowboy killer to wash it down. That part of my life seems to be over, too. I’m going to be a skinny fucker from now on. Unhappy and skinny.

Sex? Again, after you’ve done the deed, what are you supposed to do-cuddle? Fuck. “Hey baby, that was great. I’ve got to get up and make a salad?” “Mow the grass?” “Adjust the clocks, daylight savings is right around the corner?”

You know those “special” moments like getting pulled over, loosing your wallet, the wife giving you a rash of shit about something you fucked up? Yeah, long, hot drag on a Marlboro and you’re on your way to coping. Or at least out of the house and away from the angry spouse and heavy objects. Close your eyes, smoke silently and you’ll remember you dumped your wallet in the wicker basket on top of the bakery stand. Get lost? Look at a map through your own cigarette smoke and you’re bound to find the way to the beer store.

What about cigarette breaks at work? What the fuck do non-smokers DO at work? Work? God, I hope not. Man, I sit a 12 hour shift. That’s a lot of smoke breaks. Many. Mucho. Motherfucker. My ass is gonna spread like a bloodstain on linoleum, which is to say faster than it does on cement.

Did that last bit make any sense? Of course not. How can it when I can’t contemplate my words over a smoke? No more drafts for this guy. Don’t like it? Have a smoke and re-write it your damn self, which brings me to the only good I can see coming from this quitting bullshit. I’ve now got a built-in excuse to be an asshole.

Smoke em if you got em, cause I don’t, Motherfuckers.

The Pirate's ass is spreading as we speak.

Any Port in the Storm Archives

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