I guess it was inevitable that I would screw up at some point. I had a cigarette. It wasn’t that great, to be honest. I wish that could be the end of it, but now I have a whole pack of them. Well, minus two. Because I smoked one. And then I broke one in half and took a picture of it for the header for this blog. And now I don’t know what to do with the rest of them. I keep thinking, maybe if I could just have one a day until the pack was gone it wouldn’t be so terrible. But I know that’s a terrible lie and if I tried it I’d smoke them all and more frequently than once a day. I have this hangup about throwing them away, because they really are so expensive. But I have to get rid of them. I HAVE TO. Maybe I’ll go to some restaurant that still allows smoking (there are some left, I’m sure) and sit there and have a cup of coffee and leave the pack on the table, and then whoever cleans up or sits there next will feel lucky. That happened to me, once. I found a half a pack of cigarettes on a table in a restaurant once. They weren’t my brand, but I took them and smoked them. Because hey, they were free. So I figure that’s what would happen. And that wouldn’t be so bad, I guess. I don’t know.

The thing is that now that I have the cigarettes (they are in the door of my car because I refuse to bring them into the house) I think about them all the time. Pretty much every minute. It’s terrible. I’m going to have some chocolate. Chocolate helps.

I hate myself for buying them but I also know that beating myself up about it is counterproductive. It happened, blah blah, move on.