Although I do enjoy smoking and those that hang with me on a contingent basis know that they hardly ever see me milking a metaphor without a plume of cigar (or more recently, my pipe) wafting around my head in a dissipating carousel of fumes, smoking has honestly been the easiest to give up. Perhaps the need for coffee and alcohol has completely negated the urge to fire one up.
If I wanted to I could go out and brew a pot of coffee and crack open a beer and get loaded and all would be right in the world. I'm embarking on this sojourn because I want growth. Because I'm fucking sick of feeling like a overworked enervated failure. Because I'm sick of never having money. I'm sick of dry humping the hell out of the soil of the past. Because I want to discern certain tautologies about what it means to be a fucking sentient human being vs. the acronymic glyph in a text message. To feel. To long. To jettison manacles from the past.
And, in two weeks, to drive in the country with my dear friend with smokes and a cup of coffee, and (after 40 days) a cheeseburger, crack open an beer and somehow, life will all be good once again...