Climbing up the walls

I know, I know. I’ve not been writing much at all lately. And it’s hugely inconsiderate to those of you who pop by occasionally (bless your cotton socks) to read the noxious fumes I foist upon you. But you have to understand, I am a man who’s been without cigarettes for, erm, two weeks now. Yes, my previous attempt didn’t last long. I thought I would go insane, and this drug which is more addictive than heroin eventually reeled me back in after three or four days. It wasn’t my decision and I wasn’t ready for it, but this time it’s different: I chose to quit, I made the decision myself.

I have not had much proper sleep in the past fortnight. The nicotine patches, you see, they are the equivalent of eating a block of blue stilton before going to bed and you just can’t rest like that. Normally, six and a half hours’ sleep is plenty for me but I am sleeping more than eight and when I wake up I feel dreadful. No lucid moments at four a.m., only preposterous dreams: last night I was a hungry street kid in Brazil, trying to survive by my wits with two other unfortunates, an all-night saga, believe me. I am grumpy and restless. I am unable to concentrate, reading is impossible – I get lost halfway through simple sentences and during my waking hours all I think about (once I resisted the urge to smoke) is food.

I realise it’s awfully poor form to burden you with this kind of nonsense. After all, you don’t come here for that; you want to read something interesting, perhaps even amusing, but I am struggling. I can’t even think straight, let alone utter coherent sentences that those around me could decipher. Words won’t flow, they are lodged in my brain but refuse to be coaxed out by conventional means. More forceful digging breaks them up and fragments my sentences even more than usual.

I am constantly seized by the thought that I don’t care if I don’t live to be an old man, that I’d rather clog my arteries with fatty acids than clog up the supermarket aisles or the roads during rush hour forty years from now, imparting invaluable pieces of wisdom to the young and losing control of my bladder during special family occasions. Sooner or later I am bound to be claimed by some common or garden disease anyway and what’s the point of depriving myself if that’s what I ENJOY? See, you can’t reason with someone who talks like this. I am beyond reason or reproach.

Here’s the great Bill Hicks discoursing on the subject. Oh how I miss him. But be warned, his language is more than a little fruity. Those of a sensitive nature are discouraged to watch. Have a great week all.