so asides from working towards shaking a habit that has ravaged my body, I’ve been pretty disappointed with quitting smoking.
I expected more madness, more Hunter S. Sweats, more hallucinations and nightmares about lizard people.
So here are some fake quit-smoking-blog entries.
I’d pumped four .38 rounds through the clock face before I even realised I was holding a gun. Where did this gun come from? I asked no one in particular, at the same time I realised there was no glass in any windows of our house. Had I sold all the glass out of the windows for a gun? No! It suddenly dawned on me — for two guns, thirty five panadene forte and a small cactus that looked like a shrunken dinosaur boner. It all made sense. Panadene forte to numb me, the cactus to grab on to if the cravings get to strong, and guns to defend me from my enemies. Enemies who can now wander in whenever the fuck they like it because there’s no glass in the windows.
Enemies like these fucking mosquitos. One of them just got me then. The mark came up, thick and red. I stared at it, chewing my lip so hard I could taste blood, one finger poised above it. My eyes widened, and something else took hold. I started scratching, tearing at the bite, wrenching at it. I used my nail to scratch a cruel mouth halfway across it and it began to sing, “IA! IA!”, and again, “IA! IA!” Mosquitos on everything! One landed on my eyeball. No! I whispered hoarsely, don’t do it. “IA” said the mosquitos, “IA! IA!” and then it stung me in the eye.
“Ia, Ia!” you savage perverts, “Ia! Ia!”
It’s 3am, I haven’t slept in thirty seven weeks. I can hear the sugar ants in the wall having a birthday party, or a funeral. I can feel everything — my own dandruff on the pillow scratching my neck raw, the sheets are cotton but feel like crushed glass. The ceiling is two inches from my face, and I can feel a heavy weight on my chest. I sink in to the bed, because it isn’t a bed, it is a coffin. There is no lid and I can smell salt, and rot, and horse shit. The sky is two inches from my face, and I know this weight on my chest is my arms, crossed across me, but I cannot move them.
My ribs, sharp as knives, cut my wrists. I feel them slice through the flesh, but I do not bleed. The walls thump with the sugar ants tiny sound system. They are listening to It’s Raining Men — the Geri Halliwell cover. I can hear it, but I can’t hear it, which is driving me mad. Every time I become sure that’s what it is I hear something that doesn’t belong.
I lie awake, and the rain on the windows sounds like rusted bicycle wheels, and I wonder how long I’ve been crying.
This morning I threw up a river of black sludge with such violence that I snapped my collar bone. The doctor was a quiet man with skin like bible paper, with a touch so light I barely realised he was there until he was wrist deep in my abdomen. He was reaching in through my belly button, pulling out fistfuls of black sludge, slopping it in to a trough, from which a hundred babies ate. Other than occasionally growling at each other, the babies were very contented and peaceful. They all wore little sailor suits, and had beautifully clipped and manicured beards. The doctor kept pulling the black sludge out of me until there was nothing left in me.
He smiled sympathetically, and I smiled back, not quite understanding.
It is the actual day twenty and this morning I got up and Harry had lost control in the night and taken a shit in the laundry. After I cleaned it up I lit some incense and I realised that was the first time I’ve used a lighter in twenty days, and that set off some sparks going at the back of my head, flooded down electrodes, and at the base of my spine I felt as if far off I could hear a dog bark and I really wanted a cigarette.