Dear John (‘s cigarettes)

Dear Cigarettes,

I’m sorry, but I think we both knew this was a long time coming.   Only now I’ve been brave enough to voice it out loud, we need to end this.   We’ve had our fun together but recently I fear we have drifted too far apart.   The spark has gone, no longer to I get that buzzing feeling in your surprisingly cold embrace.   We had some great times, when it was just us after a meal and a glass of wine in hand but it’s over, and I think you know why.

It wasn’t your taste or smell, no they grew on me like a fungal infection.   No, it was our morning smoke.   You lured me in with the ideal of a Parisian artistic lifestyle, cigarette in one hand, black coffee in the other as I lie lavishly in the morning sun.   Allowing it to skin my skin as I marvel at inspirational architecture from behind sunglassed eyes and judging passers by to be the uneducated philistines, that I knew them to be.

The reality of course being a far cry from such dreams.   Standing in the rain soaked streets of Cessnock, holding the sippy cup you’ve commandeered as a mug over you, shielding you from the worst of the rain.   Feeling moisture seem down the back of my neck leaving my skin cold and damp as I furiously try to light you with a lighter that has clearly forgotten its purpose in life and decided that it now wants to scrape the skin off thrumbs forever more.   Meanwhile I sip lukewarm “instant coffee”, which I have come to notice isn’t particularly instant, or for that matter coffee.   A quick glance and all I notice to marvel at is the industrial refuse bin and the wanton abandonment of garbage surrounding it.   At this point all I can really do is judge myself as I suddenly realise I have to make a very prompt and important choice between possibly not finishing my cigarette or leaving an awkward brown stain on my trousers.

That last bit probably isn’t your fault admittedly, but fuck you anyway.

About tellingfibulas

Lukewarmest thing to tip its toe into Glasgow comedy
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