I was walking along today and my brain said pssst, hey Alex, you want a cigarette.
I was quite surprised. I haven’t had a cigarette in years and it’s been months since I last spoke to my brain.
I said, “I assure you, brain, I most definitely do not want a cigarette. I made a solid effort to remember the sensations of my final one, and it was gross. And I don’t want to get back into a habit that means I have to go downstairs and inevitably bump into other ‘regulars’ every hour. So no, brain, I’ll pass”.
But my brain was in quite a mood. It was like just buy a pack, and smoke ‘em.
It was a weird sensation. It really had me reminiscing in a way that I really didn’t want to be.
I knew I needed to make a stand, so I told my brain: “Dude, if you make me have a cigarette, I’m going to cut myself. I’m not kidding, if you make me buy a pack, I’ll go right next door to the supermarket, buy a pack of Gillette razors and go deep across my wrists. It’s going to hurt like fuck for the both of us.”
Then I thought, actually, it’s super hot recently and I don’t want to have to start wearing a long sleeved shirt to avoid all those “why you cuttin’ yourself” questions. So I’m going to do my shoulder, or maybe my inner thy. I know there’s a big vein down there somewhere that I need to miss, but I’ll watch a YouTube video on how to do it properly.
Then I started thinking about Erica and how she’ll go on and on about this if she saw the cuts.
(This is all true, by the way.)
My brain was listening in on my doubts and said you’re not going to cut yourself.
Oh brain, sly as a fox.
But I’m sure as fuck not going to take up smoking again. I had to up the ante.
“Fuck it, I’ll kill myself, brain. You make me have one cigarette and it’s a bag over the head. And if I recall correctly, that’s your house.”
My brain, being inside my head, knew that I was serious.
Alright alright, said brain, now on the back foot, how about we make a deal.
My brain never wanted a cigarette, as it turns out, it was all just a bargaining ploy. Or chip.
You see, the last of the vodka went last night, and my plan was to not buy another bottle. Ever.
The deal that my brain wanted, that it made seem like such a good deal, was one bottle of vodka in exchange for a pack of cigarettes. It would let me walk into the shopping centre, right past the wog in the tobacconist and his friend wog that very sweetly visits quite often, and straight into the bottle shop.
So here I sit, slightly drunk, pleased that I didn’t have to take up smoking again, of cut myself or kill myself.