Smoking

I can't stand smoking. I hate myself for giving into this habit every day. I hate how my hands smell, my car smells, my clothes smell, and how my mouth tastes... then I light up another.

I once held a small argument with someone about whether or not smoking was self-destruction or suicide. Why can't it be both? The perfect, slow, semi-painless, pussy way out.

I've quit for months at a time before, once for nine months, but I always crawl back. When I'm feeling weak, when I'm hating myself too intensely to bare, when being healthy seems unworthy of myself, I crawl back. 

It's my only vice. At the bars, at the gigs, at the house party, you see socially confident, overly happy, loving everyone, Drew. This Drew isn't by any means fake. He's just as real as the cigarette he's smoking. But each time that flame comes up to the tip of a new smoke, you now have and idea of the gears that are turning in his head.

Certain things have changed recently. Some growth has occurred. Let's see where the end of this pack takes me.