My computer blew up last week and in the process of transferring my data I came across this silly farewell Letter I wrote when I quit smoking.
I've seen a few people have written their letters to AL, so thought I'd share. I remember it helped me keep it in perspective when I was loosing my mind :nutso:
Hope it gives you all a chuckle. Weird seeing it again especially after 14 years-Smoke Free,
:h
A MONTH ON MONDAY
How?d you do? Smoke?s my name and a pack a day?s my game. On Monday it will be a month and I miss you my little fired up friends. Perhaps if you had been religion, exercise, chocolate or sex we could have made this work. Made it into something really long-term.
You?re deadly; You?re dirty; You age my pores but Lord oh Lord, you?ve been such a huge part of my days, my weeks, my months, my years. Now what will I use to swallow up the time? Who will help me lap up the eternal minutes waiting in line, talking on the phone, digesting meals, pondering the endless, boring narcissistic meaning of life?
To face that view without your focus, your forceful insight; It?s the abyss: It?s horrible. Too horrible
I miss the lovely, lazy way you hung in the air like a thready, spectral hammock drifting through my house and over my furniture, firing my imagination with your ghostly shapes and thick scents before disappearing into the stratosphere. I miss your little glass and ceramic beds scattered strategically throughout the house, yawning carelessly on a table or a chair, the bedroom carpet ready to receive the crushed and broken body of that weary traveler. I miss the hunt for black and blue lighters or crumpled match sticks and then the slow realization that there aren't any. They are all gone, poof.
So I?ll have to tend to you at the stove, light your fire on the black ring while waiting anxiously for it to turn red. I miss the man in the store who holds you up with a smile as he hands you over to me like a child up for adoption. We are distant relatives he and I, bonded by the same satisfaction you send through both our blood and both our brains. Where there?s smoke, there?s me.
To smoke or not to smoke? That is the decision. Whether tis nobler to suffer the slings and arrows of dirty looks and segregation or lie peaceable in my bed sucking filtered filth too wonderful to describe down into the small sacs lining my lungs. A month ago today I would have said that being a part of the ten o?clock office break crowd was actually a constitutional right. And too a degree, I still want to believe that. But after a month apart from you, I see you more like a constipation than the constitution. I smell your sweet perfume and sometimes get sick and sometimes get greedy. I look into the faces of people sucking you down like a quick dip in the desert and their moist faces are crinkled and worried, critical or just pissed off.
But some seem serene. There?s one drifting in the driver?s seat of a red sports cars, stopped at the intersection, blonde hair blowing past black glasses. The windows are rolled down I see, smell your lovely svelte self moving easily from lane to lane, flirting like a skirt with a whiff of your scent tickling my nose and I rest my face on my arm, nose pointing towards that warm, red patient eye. Shit.
But I know we must not meet again. Ever- Not like this. Not like that. We must not share small kisses even though I am hellaciously tired now all the time. We must pass each other on the street as though we had never met. Never made love and shared all we did. Our intimacy must now look like a dalliance, a brief encounter looked upon with something like disdain: Like the lip sucking, loveless loitering that it came to be. Enough said. I can?t take it anymore. Adieu, Adieu my friend. Parting is so very sorrowful and the sweet will come later. Much Later.
About two years they tell me.
I've seen a few people have written their letters to AL, so thought I'd share. I remember it helped me keep it in perspective when I was loosing my mind :nutso:
Hope it gives you all a chuckle. Weird seeing it again especially after 14 years-Smoke Free,
:h
A MONTH ON MONDAY
How?d you do? Smoke?s my name and a pack a day?s my game. On Monday it will be a month and I miss you my little fired up friends. Perhaps if you had been religion, exercise, chocolate or sex we could have made this work. Made it into something really long-term.
You?re deadly; You?re dirty; You age my pores but Lord oh Lord, you?ve been such a huge part of my days, my weeks, my months, my years. Now what will I use to swallow up the time? Who will help me lap up the eternal minutes waiting in line, talking on the phone, digesting meals, pondering the endless, boring narcissistic meaning of life?
To face that view without your focus, your forceful insight; It?s the abyss: It?s horrible. Too horrible
I miss the lovely, lazy way you hung in the air like a thready, spectral hammock drifting through my house and over my furniture, firing my imagination with your ghostly shapes and thick scents before disappearing into the stratosphere. I miss your little glass and ceramic beds scattered strategically throughout the house, yawning carelessly on a table or a chair, the bedroom carpet ready to receive the crushed and broken body of that weary traveler. I miss the hunt for black and blue lighters or crumpled match sticks and then the slow realization that there aren't any. They are all gone, poof.
So I?ll have to tend to you at the stove, light your fire on the black ring while waiting anxiously for it to turn red. I miss the man in the store who holds you up with a smile as he hands you over to me like a child up for adoption. We are distant relatives he and I, bonded by the same satisfaction you send through both our blood and both our brains. Where there?s smoke, there?s me.
To smoke or not to smoke? That is the decision. Whether tis nobler to suffer the slings and arrows of dirty looks and segregation or lie peaceable in my bed sucking filtered filth too wonderful to describe down into the small sacs lining my lungs. A month ago today I would have said that being a part of the ten o?clock office break crowd was actually a constitutional right. And too a degree, I still want to believe that. But after a month apart from you, I see you more like a constipation than the constitution. I smell your sweet perfume and sometimes get sick and sometimes get greedy. I look into the faces of people sucking you down like a quick dip in the desert and their moist faces are crinkled and worried, critical or just pissed off.
But some seem serene. There?s one drifting in the driver?s seat of a red sports cars, stopped at the intersection, blonde hair blowing past black glasses. The windows are rolled down I see, smell your lovely svelte self moving easily from lane to lane, flirting like a skirt with a whiff of your scent tickling my nose and I rest my face on my arm, nose pointing towards that warm, red patient eye. Shit.
But I know we must not meet again. Ever- Not like this. Not like that. We must not share small kisses even though I am hellaciously tired now all the time. We must pass each other on the street as though we had never met. Never made love and shared all we did. Our intimacy must now look like a dalliance, a brief encounter looked upon with something like disdain: Like the lip sucking, loveless loitering that it came to be. Enough said. I can?t take it anymore. Adieu, Adieu my friend. Parting is so very sorrowful and the sweet will come later. Much Later.
About two years they tell me.
PPQ
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