Thursday, January 30, 2003

For approximately the nine hundredth time


...in this still-young year, I am wishing that I still smoked cigarettes.

It's not a nicotine fit—it's been years since I had one, and I was never even a habitual smoker: it's just that, as the afternoon winds sullenly down into a vortex of mind-killing boredom, I'm left with nothing to do but brood.

A man who smokes can at least get up from his desk, can go for a walk, can stand out on the cold cement loading dock and watch the sky darken over the wet grey parking lot. I need to get up and walk, but I can't, because I have no vices to give me that permission.

Where you goin? Goin for a smoke.
Whatcha doin standin out here? Just came out for a cigarette.

See? Easy questions, easy answers.

But not for me.

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