If there's smoke, there's a liar

(not even crickets chirping, 05something)

It's one of those days where I feel like I went on heroin the night before because the day after feels chemically wrong. You see something funny and it's funny but it's just not funny. You talk to people hoping they won't figure you're on the fritz but all you can manage is a sentence out of context here and maybe there.You gnaw your teeth and your hand often reaches for the lighter. But you say no. Nicotine isn't bad but things aren't working between us anymore. It's time to part. A hug? One last time. A goodbye kiss? Couldn't hurt. A sordid five minutes later, you realize you're having your post-smoke smoke.
But not today. No cigarettes until I do my paper. No dinner even. Stomach grumbles. Maybe dinner. I'm tired. Mosquitoes love the legs. Half is done. Fuck half. Slave some more. Complete it. Grin widely and head towards the roof. But what of the cigarettes? Where are my cigarettes?
Then like a Meatloaf song, it all started coming back to me now.
Class was over and I'd gone to sit on the bench. I did pull out one deathstick. I did smoke one. And then I did leave the packet and my favourite lighter. and Forgot. Couldn't be worse. Wait, what the fuck is Celine Dion doing in my mind?
Come back down from the roof! Late? Very. Frustrated too. Very. Temper running low. Tempted to knock and ask the progenitor? Bad idea. Still tempting.
6 now. Bright idea. Car. Pack of 10. Sanity. Off I go. I shouldn't publish. I should. Smoking kills.