Not to sound lame, but sometimes I enjoy things a lot more when I’ve got a cigarette dangling from my fingers.
I went for a run today that was surprisingly easy, but I guess that’s because I’ve all but stopped smoking, which at this point, is closely tied to my drinking. My love affair with smoking has most definitely ended, but every once and a while, I crave a backslide like no other.
It’s pint night tonight, so that’s happening and I’m probably going to slip up once or twice and find myself with a cigarette between my lips. I’ll probably be lured outside by some skeezy boy with a charming accent and skin-tight pants that sag just below his ass.
I’ll take the cigarette because I’m especially social when I’m drinking and I’ll use any excuse to extricate myself from an over-crowded bar. I’ll tell him some sort of witty tale and he’ll laugh, because that’s what’s expected in these kinds of situations.
We’ll talk for a bit, and I’ll get inevitably bored and make up some sort of half-hearted excuse about needing to go inside – right.this.second. I’ll see him at the leaning on the bar later, or maybe, if I get spectacularly drunk, I’ll see him in the men’s washroom when I get confused by the misleading pictograms on the door.
He’ll invite me out for another cigarette before I leave as if he’s just trying to get a handle on whether I really just like smoking that much, or if I’m looking to get laid and I’ll stare at him blankly because I really don’t know.