I thought I should quantify the last two days. I have done very little. In fact, I could say that I have done nothing. I have spent the last 48 hours in bed. I have spent 24 hours of that time asleep. I have written four complete poems and no blogs in that time. I have eaten two separate packets of Kit Kats. I don’t usually eat chocolate.

Inadvertantly, I have smoked nothing. I never, ever mean to give up smoking, but I am lazy. I could not, in all honesty, face the 15 minute round trip to the Esso garage to get cigarettes, and I think I could call the last two days a minor depression.

I read Ginger Chris’ latest entry about his quarter life crisis and I can totally relate. Blogs just make everyone so emotional and in touch with their feminine sides. Maybe all writers are like this; maybe all writers are just depressing bastards. Hopefully Chris and I come across as “brooding and arty”, as opposed to just “wankers”.

During my entire day spent asleep, I had a number of dreams about still being part of a two-point-four-children family. Strangely, I was part of one of those families who visit my work and eat and complain and pretend they are happy in one another’s company but are so clearly not. I would hate to be back there, in that horrible situation that is forced upon people as the status quo. I don’t think I believe in marriage.

So I got pissed off. I went to the garage, where I first bought cigarettes. I bought them when I was underage, not for me, but for my dad. I bought my Marlboros, for me, and walked home the long way – past where I used to live when I was part of a two-point-four-children, ABC1 family.

There was this song playing on the radio as I wandered through middle-class suburbia, sang by some faux-lower class indie band via BBC Radio One, with the chorus “All these expectations pulling at me/Don’t know how I can hold on”. The people who had bought our old house had knocked down the wall my dad had built and cut branches off my parent’s cherry tree, a long time ago. The tree has grown out again though, and looks like it is taking over my old house. Every draw of the cigarette, and every bar of the song, was sweeter after seeing that.

Evidently, I am probably addicted to nicotine; and if I do not give into the addiction, I overanalyse. Joni Mitchell said something similar in a recent interview with the Irish Times

She remains an enthusiastic advocate of smoking. “How did Ireland give up so easily on smoking?” she asks. “People are going to die of butter, or alcohol, or something. Why pick on cigarettes? I really couldn’t have gotten through life without them, because I have a certain kind of nervous temperament and they calm me. I also couldn’t have done as much, because smoking helps me to focus. I was sitting on a terrace in LA and this guy complains about the smell of smoke. I hadn’t even lit up. Then I overheard him complaining that nobody can concentrate anymore and I said, ‘Yeah, it’s because they’re not smoking’. The world is so full of ex-smokers, I don’t know how anyone gets anything done.”

Also, because I have spent so much time online during my last couple of days, I thought I should share some of the weird things I have come across during my totally uninteresting and inanimate adventure:

“Shoping [sic] Planet” asking “What if you could get paid to shop, eat out and have fun?”. Anyone else thinking prostitution?

This sexy, unconventional map which makes Britain look like an afterthought.

Some gay cutlery.

And, of course, this website – clearly inspired by my uni. Sometimes I wish I was dead.


3 responses to “Addicted

  1. Heh the gay cutlery I sent you to! I feel special.

  2. Didn’t I link you to that map? Maybe not, but I was flashing it about a while ago.

  3. Hey! Great stuff. +1 tnks 🙂 Visit my blog too.

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