When I woke up this morning I forgot that I had quit smoking, because it feels like someone parked a truck full of angry circus gorillas in my lungs.
They’re angry because their trainer got drunk last night and left the TV on and they saw a documentary about gorillas in the wild. They’re sitting there in little bowties and hats after another full house show of plate spinning, buffooning, and riding tiny bicycles. Then this documentary comes on and they see what life is really meant to be like. They’re not meant to wear little bowties and hats, and spin plates. They’re meant to lumber around an almost neon green jungle wonderland.
It’s that anger — humiliation, realisation that you’ve been cheated, realising that there was meant to be more to your life — that the gorilla’s feel, and they’ve flipped right the fuck out and destroyed their cages, their caravans. Their trainers, panicing have grabbed tazers and long poles and managed to coerce them into a truck, but it’s not going to hold them for long. They’re smashing against the sides of it, and it’s rocking from side to side and there’s a smell in the air, the smell of crazy animal. The trainers don’t know what to do, so one brave soul dives in the cab of the truck, and drives it away from the circus.
And parks it in my lungs.