24 hours without a cigarette.
I have yet to kill a co-worker today. Or a hobo. But I really didn’t see any hobos and I can’t say what would have happened if I did. My co-workers are just lucky I have headphones and the entire Anthrax catalog to keep me from standing on my desk, screaming out random lyrics from “I’m The Man” and then dropping them all with lethal Glare O’ Death. I can shoot lasers out of my eyeballs, man! GET OUTTA MY WAY!
Oh yea. I have reached that phase of nicotine withdrawal where my mind tends to lose its already tenuous grip on sanity. Next come the hallucinations. “I swear officer, I thought he was a hobo.” It’s legal to kill hobos, right? Someone at work today said I was one candy short of a pinata. WhatEVER.
You know how easy it would be for me to right this very second reach not five inches in front of me and grab that pack of cigarettes I purposefully left there, pull out a smoke, light it, suck in and exhale deeply, with satisfaction? So easy. So very very very easy. So tempting.
But I am not a weak woman like Eve. I will not be tempted by your low hanging nicotine fruit.
I was going somewhere there. Something about Todd wearing nothing but a tobacco leaf around his waist.
Anyhow. I need to get back to work and hone my death-stare skills. Peace be with you. Unless you’re a hobo.
*i really have nothing against hobos. it’s just a funny word and i like saying it.