Day One - Morning Part 2
Well, actually, the attack passed before I even got to the blog. It wasn't too bad. Something to do with a ribcage full of bees.
I am a little concerned because I've shortly got to leave for a meeting (sudden vision of finishing writing a novel and not being able to smoke and what's the point of writing a novel in the first place if you can't smoke a cigarette when you've just written a really good bit. The wrirly [no idea what that words means.- D.] tendrils are closing in - creeping round my lungs like ivy or triffids or something worse. There's a ball off string in my chest and for some reason it's spinning very fast.
OK. Getting better, though apparently there's still a hamster or something similarly furry in my chest.
Anyway, I'm worried about this meeting. Long smokeless walk there. Long smokeless walk back. Big mushroom starting to grow in my temple and small rebellion beginning in my sinuses. Need something to do while walking. I'm in Soho so breathing in the fresh air isn't quite going to cut it. Memories of Denis Leary for some reason. I don't even like Denis Leary. Well I liked his first special but that was a long time ago. I bet he doesn't even smoke anymore. And even if he does, does that mean I have to? How come he gets to smoke and I don't? Stupid Denis Leary. Andrea Dworkin died today. I don't know if she smoked. She had weight problems. I mean, from a health standpoint. Not from an 'idealized view of female beauty' standpoint. I mean that her knees couldn't support her weight. Is that what a non-smoking mcmuffin eating future holds for me?
There's something gaseous in my chest. It grows and waits. Oh God, the hunger. I'll eat something on my way to that meeting. Like maybe a small pig. Lungs have given up. They don't see the point of breathing smokeless air. And I'm inclined to agree with them.
The chest cavity is like a dull constant nagging now. A bit like the wife. Ha Ha. I wonder how she's getting on...
I am a little concerned because I've shortly got to leave for a meeting (sudden vision of finishing writing a novel and not being able to smoke and what's the point of writing a novel in the first place if you can't smoke a cigarette when you've just written a really good bit. The wrirly [no idea what that words means.- D.] tendrils are closing in - creeping round my lungs like ivy or triffids or something worse. There's a ball off string in my chest and for some reason it's spinning very fast.
OK. Getting better, though apparently there's still a hamster or something similarly furry in my chest.
Anyway, I'm worried about this meeting. Long smokeless walk there. Long smokeless walk back. Big mushroom starting to grow in my temple and small rebellion beginning in my sinuses. Need something to do while walking. I'm in Soho so breathing in the fresh air isn't quite going to cut it. Memories of Denis Leary for some reason. I don't even like Denis Leary. Well I liked his first special but that was a long time ago. I bet he doesn't even smoke anymore. And even if he does, does that mean I have to? How come he gets to smoke and I don't? Stupid Denis Leary. Andrea Dworkin died today. I don't know if she smoked. She had weight problems. I mean, from a health standpoint. Not from an 'idealized view of female beauty' standpoint. I mean that her knees couldn't support her weight. Is that what a non-smoking mcmuffin eating future holds for me?
There's something gaseous in my chest. It grows and waits. Oh God, the hunger. I'll eat something on my way to that meeting. Like maybe a small pig. Lungs have given up. They don't see the point of breathing smokeless air. And I'm inclined to agree with them.
The chest cavity is like a dull constant nagging now. A bit like the wife. Ha Ha. I wonder how she's getting on...
posted by dan at 10:13 AM
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