So I've completed six days without tobacco or nicotine in any form and it's been the longest, dreariest six days of my life. And even as I write that, I want to retract it or rephrase it or something, because it has also been the time of my father-in-law's dying, spread over these same days and I can't see what's what at all. I started smoking in early September 1965, on my first day at grammar school, aged eleven. I smoked my final fag last Wednesday night, whatever the date was then, and ever since have been in a state of weird-shit-ness that presumably will end at some point.

It's like being in a waiting room. There's also that sensation that comes when you've drunk half a cup of something and the rest got thrown away by mistake - that sense of something unfinished. That could fuck off about now. Along with the idea that there's a little treat-type-of-thing I could choose right now that would be perfect - this bubbles along almost but not quite subconsciously and it's FUCKING SHITE because it's referring to lighting a fag, which just does not deliver on the pleasure front, honestly, compared to any other drug you care to mention it's just crap, the biggest con of all time, so I won't fall for it, but I have to keep telling myself that, all the livelong fucking day, honestly that would make me a bad-tempered hate-filled simmering raging fury, even if I wasn't already that way inclined.

Too too too hard, but no alternative