In the past, it seemed I was determined to smoke more today than I did yesterday and now - 25 years of chain-smoking later - I can hardly believe it's been 300 days since I last lit up.
Old habits die hard, maybe that's one reason I'm now breakfasting in Tymon Park, torn between the fact that my food tastes better and the psychological pain of missing my nicotine accompaniment.
I saw smoke coming from inside a car. I watched the old man get out with a beautiful cigarette dangling from his mouth - locking the car while puffing on the smoke, expertly - and I decided when I'm as old as he is I'm going to smoke again. Of course, I'm not. I'm only lettin' on in the game, so my little nicotine monster will return to his comatose slumber and leave me to enjoy my 300th.
I mentioned the surreal nature to my daily life. Last week, I had a few celebratory drinks, which ballsed-up my 100 day challenge that I didn't see as challenging, and then failed. Anyhoo, the fucking bizarre shit that followed my wasted celebration - good term for it, wasted - is high up on the freaky league table. Sometimes I think I'd like things to happen in a straightforward, simple way. Sometimes I think that would be boring. Sometimes, like now, I don't know what to think and a big broad smile has appeared on my face, and I'm sitting in my car with a half-chewed mouthful of bacon and egg mcmuffin in my mouth, chuckling. Chewing and chuckling.
I should be crying, or if not crying then banging my head off the dashboard, but I don't allow trivial shite like being messed around by strange people to bother me, for very long. I hate being vague. I just can't elaborate, but it would make a great short story. Food for thought.
There are 65 days remaining until the anniversary of me running around my sister's house asking her, 'Where's the little Indian girl?'
There was no little Indian girl, but you already knew that. At the time, I didn't.