But. I've had enough of the dopamine v denial see-saw hee-haw, see. Hunkered hardly dignified on a back step squinting up at the same chimney pots umpteen times a day. As if that was the only way to think. I have been thinking about it for a long time. The health of course the money, mostly the vanity to be fair. You wouldn't, if it made you fat like. You wouldn't. Twenty pork pies a day I hardly think so. I didn't plan it per-say. You know, dot of midnight,
that's it we're through I'm done no more,
convert's zeal, that sort of thing it just started as a game.
In defiance of the idiot on the radio really. He poo-poo'd the tests, 'they prove-proved nothing'. That PR Rat. Him hardly thirty years old. I'd be willing to bet he's never smoked in his puff. The superciliousness on him.
Change all the packaging to white? Remove all branding except black Helvetica
This Kills Dont
Don't be ridiculous.
He scoffed. That Rat. He snorted. "It doesn't make any difference.
These People Will Smoke Regardless
That's what did me in. As if we were stupid, beyond repair, as if we had never heard of Pavlov, or knew nothing of sensory triggers. Red and white triangles. Clever purple boxes. Natty green parcels.
Let me tell you all about how, oh what were those smokes - I couldn't have them but what a box - Lucky Strikes! Lordy how we tried to teach ourselves to smoke those Lovely Sexy Lucky Strikes.
And the Soft Packs.
On the heel of your hand.
Shoot one out the rip. Apocalypse Now.
I had a sculptor boyfriend. A little too clean cut and clean living for either of us in the end.
He used to say.
I wish I smoked.
In his Aviators and Levis.
He greatly admired the satisfactory proportions of a packet of cigarettes. How they fit in your hand, in the back pocket of jeans, the fly of a shirt.
Next thing, that idiot on the radio will be trying to convince me that the length x breadth x height of a box of twenty cigarettes isn't based on some Dionysian ideal or elliptic Egyptian proportion. I came over a bit Erin Brockovich and.
Two weeks later I'm still all screaming night terrors and abject nihilism. Pacing the floor fit to be tied, sobbing in the shower for an hour or more convinced of nothing.
I hear it will pass.
- Photo Reyjavik