Day Thirty

Call back the dogs! I am fucking fiending like crazy right now and have been all morning, and all I can think about it, 'Just one cig', which would be wonderful (perhaps) if I was able to run out to the store and buy one single cigarette and smoke only that cigarette and be finished with it all, but I can't do that. I would have to buy an entire pack and then hide it somewhere and tell my lovely wife I bummed it from someone while on an errand while I am telling myself that I will keep that pack for ONLY special occasions. Maybe it will even remain in my bag for a few days or a week, but that is highly unlikely because I LOVE CIGARETTES. Love them. They taste to disgustingly delicious like the smell of old grease; like the smell of a bleached kitchen. mmmm...

At least I am addressing it, right? No fucking way I am going to ruin twenty-nine days of heaven and clean consciousness for five minutes of death. And there is absolutely no way I would smoke only one. I have fooled myself enough. I would be like a pedophile at the pool in late July. The lack of control disgusts me.

This is a problem, though, because I want to get out of the house and, frankly, cannot trust myself. I just need to walk out the door and face my addiction, my faults, me. Here I go...