2000 ~ On Giving Up Smoking

The good thing about rambling writing now, compared (yes, I am allowed to compare) to the ramblings of 2000 is that back then I was not only giving up drugs, after having previously given up drink, but was also giving up tobacco.  Just to add a bit more stress to the situation.  Now I can fill the ashtray without worrying that I’m smoking too much.  I don’t even really want to know what my real beleifs are about smoking because it’s so pleasant to not be worring that I should cut down or give up.  The best thing I ever gave up was giving up giving up smoking.
This is what it was like:
“It gets very tiring by the time the evening comes, it’s exhausting giving up smoking.  It’s like embarking on a long arduous uncomfortable train journey, a train that never stops so you can’t get off and stretch your legs for a moment.  You got on it, and on it you’ll stay, being battered and jostled, tense, and weary.  Every time your head drops onto your chest in sheer exhaustion, the train careers around a corner and your head slams against the window, reminding you of the horrible journey.  You’ve brought a picnic with you, a large box of chocolates to try and cheer you through the long grim tunnels.  They’re very nice while they’re in your mouth, for a moment all you can think of is how wonderful the chocolate tastes, so you chew them up fast, and pop another, then another, into your mouth, practically on a non stop sweet unwrapping and furious chewing mission.  Seventeen chocolates later, you feel sick and the train lurches and nothing has changed.  You’re on a grim endless pitiless journey, you’re dog tired and weary beyond beleif, your concentration span is less than 4 seconds, you’re surrounded by the most irritating and annoying people, animals and imanimate objects, and now your stomach has ballooned, your teeth are clagged with chocolate, and you feel sick. 
You’ve been on the train for 3 days and 3 nights, you boarded at dawn on Valentines day.  There are seats on the train and beds, there are drinks of juice and coffee, there’s as much food as you want to eat; and if you really want there are pretend cigarettes made with grass leaves.  You can sit and drink or lie down and smoke a joint, you can take out your book or your pen and paper, sometimes even clean the windows, or sweep and sweep and sweep, but  it’s not really what you want, not any of it.  You’re waiting for the grueling jolting day to be over; sleep, oblivion beckons, you watch the clock and count the hours, the minutes until bedtime.  You’re so tired, so utterly worn out that you eat some more chocolates and smoke a couple more pretend cigarettes and you go to bed far too early.  You sleep at first, your pretend cigarettes help.  The the train whistle sounds and the clanking and rattling echos in the tunnel and jolts you awake.  You’re clammy and cold, and hot too, in the slimey shivery tunnel so you lie still and pretend you’re not there.  Just as you drop off again into the blissful oblivion the train from hell is flung out of the tunnel, into a pack of baying hounds.  With sick dread you realize it’s your dogs and you have to get up and let them out.  Oh god, another day on the endless journey.”
I’m just loving the freedom to be depressed and complaining, it seems so spontaneous and humerous, or maybe that is just in retrospect.