Here is my post for Day 1 of 
"Cigarettes"
"Damn I want a cigarette even though it's gonna kill me--damn I wanna cigarette, even though I'm gonna die."
That was the phrase that first came to mind when I saw this prompt.
I want a cigarette so bad, it's killin me.
I woke up late one night last October with a dull ache in my back. Nothing new for a man in his thirties who moves around a lot in his sleep. But by late that afternoon when I woke up from having nodded off in my living room chair, I could barely fucking breathe it hurt so bad. Luckily there was someone close enough to help.
Thirty minutes later, I was checked into the hospital with a bi-pulmonary em-bo-lis-m. Them's doctors words for having blood clotted up in yo lungs--
Well say hello to fuck me backward, but I didn't see that one comin.
Though I guess I can't say I was all-too surprised. Huffing up to two packs a day before the embolisms, it's not exactly like I was living like Lance Armstrong.
(Now let's just hope that doesn't end up having been a terribly awkward, and ironic example to have used :/ )
I'm happy to report, while I did have to stay in the hospital five days, I made a full and complete recovery.
Or so I thought.
Actually, all was well, until, I so, so devilishly sucked down a new pack; then another, then another... Until just last week, I was yet again in a similar position.
Which is frustrating on multiple levels.
Of course, on the one hand--yes, it's my fault for choosing to take up the habit "knowing" it was "bad for me." (But hey: don't some people go their entire lives like a chimney, only to live to be 112 and die peacefully in their sleep? Yeah,
genius; "some" being the key word here.)
And it's my fault for picking it back up.
But those bastards are tricky... very tricky, they be. They're on every street corner... in the mouths of every passersby... (okay, now I'm just being dramatic).
Either way, I'm not smoking today.
I never said a damn thing about weed, though.
(you can find
