Hanging on to the frickin wagon for dear life..
March 3rd 2008 10:05
A sharp snip along the dotted line of the small square piece with my pink plastic scissors and it begins.
The application of the round silver patch onto a spare scrap of flesh on either upper arm along with a quick rub and I'm almost there.
Two hours later when the permeation into my blood stream has reached it's peak and the arm with the patch experiencing pain akin to childbirth I'm there.
Yeah baby.
I'm so there.
Still, confusion reigned at lunchtime.
Normally I would quietly slip outside through the back door of work to the side street where I'd light up (I've made it a rule to never smoke at work - a work function being the exception when I've been coaxed into submission with a bombardment of margarita's).
So I ignored the profound daze I found myself in as I walked through the front door and paid no heed to the brief, desperate moments of wanting to punch out the little old woman walking in front of me to prise the cigarette from her nictoine stained fingers and run as fast as my black high heeled shoes with the cute black bows would let me.
Until I got home.
When I spotted the half stubbed out, six-puffs-left cigarette patiently and quietly waiting for me in the rockery like a secret lover.
I absolutely love you I told it as I lit up.
I fucking hate you I reminded it when I stubbed it out.
The eight rocky road biscuits on special at Safeway that I demolished in ten minutes completely and utterly negated the wholesome benefits of my half hour walk at lunchtime.
However.
Today is another day.
The pantry cupboard is Mother Hubbard bare of chocolate biscuits with a fat laden content high enough to feed Nicole Ritchie for a few months.
My supply of discarded, three quarter smoked fags waiting for me with lusty, open arms has dried up like a puddle in bright sunlight.
I'm still hanging onto that wagon by my fingernails, desperately short and bitten down as they are.
But only just.
The application of the round silver patch onto a spare scrap of flesh on either upper arm along with a quick rub and I'm almost there.
Two hours later when the permeation into my blood stream has reached it's peak and the arm with the patch experiencing pain akin to childbirth I'm there.
Yeah baby.
I'm so there.
Still, confusion reigned at lunchtime.
Normally I would quietly slip outside through the back door of work to the side street where I'd light up (I've made it a rule to never smoke at work - a work function being the exception when I've been coaxed into submission with a bombardment of margarita's).
So I ignored the profound daze I found myself in as I walked through the front door and paid no heed to the brief, desperate moments of wanting to punch out the little old woman walking in front of me to prise the cigarette from her nictoine stained fingers and run as fast as my black high heeled shoes with the cute black bows would let me.
Until I got home.
When I spotted the half stubbed out, six-puffs-left cigarette patiently and quietly waiting for me in the rockery like a secret lover.
I absolutely love you I told it as I lit up.
I fucking hate you I reminded it when I stubbed it out.
The eight rocky road biscuits on special at Safeway that I demolished in ten minutes completely and utterly negated the wholesome benefits of my half hour walk at lunchtime.
However.
Today is another day.
The pantry cupboard is Mother Hubbard bare of chocolate biscuits with a fat laden content high enough to feed Nicole Ritchie for a few months.
My supply of discarded, three quarter smoked fags waiting for me with lusty, open arms has dried up like a puddle in bright sunlight.
I'm still hanging onto that wagon by my fingernails, desperately short and bitten down as they are.
But only just.
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