Digging Again

"Argh... Let it silde." I said to myself.

It started off casually over a couple of drinks. I'd steal one from a friend. And then two. It was really good, having a ciggy with a drink. A sip of iced cold beer, followed by a long drag of a fag. There is something soothing and relaxing about exhaling the puff of smoke, slowly, eyes closed. It's somewhat macho, like a fire breathing dragon. Good things come in pairs, so are the bad stuff. Booze and fags, they complement each other so very pleasantly, almost symbiotic.

Later I'd do it whenever I'm traveling, on vacations or business trips. I buy them myself and get it done at the hotel lobby, as I still specifically ask for a non-smoking room. Normally I'd not finish them and I bin the remaining as I return. I could not remember when exactly I started to buy a pack for myself before I go for a night out, drinking with friends and smoking like a chimney. I'd go look for the specific brand I like. I no longer throw away the remaining at the end of the night. I finish them!

I'm not a social smoker anymore. I'm a pseudo smoky smokerson! How the hell did I let it gone to this far?

Consciously I know I'm walking down an extremely slippery slope. It wouldn't be long before I advance into a full fledge smoky smokerson. I still question myself on why I'm doing this. I still find it disgusting. The after taste lingers in my mouth and my clothes put me off. Parched throat, chapped lips and smelling fingers aren't exactly appealing either. Yet, I can't put my finger on it.

The healthy freak in me is screaming into my ears, calling me names, stupid, stupid names, which I totally deserve. So is the miser in me, tallying the money I burn every time I light one up.

Still...

Oh shit, I think I'm back on digging again.