|I reverse google imaged with no luck, credit anyone?|
I've always smoked a little, having a cigarette on weekends with a drink and then going months and sometimes an entire year without smoking. Last week I had a hard time making it through convention night coverage without a cigarette. I resolved to quit on Friday when my pack ran out. Then I burnt the shit out of dinner (after two hours of cooking, at nine at night) and heard from a friend who's wedding is not going so well. With all the same issues as when ours wasn't going so well. And I dragged the dog on a walk to the library to return the two books I read last week in my unemployed days and bought another pack of American Spirits. I'm trying not to beat myself up about it. I'm also trying not to beat myself up about the quantity of sorbet and chips I've been eating or the amount of money I've spent on paint samples. This growing, moving thing isn't easy and it doesn't feel easy. It doesn't even feel hard in that good stretching, growing way. It feels crummy and empty and long.