Now playing: the bittersweet silence of a nicotine craving.
I'm going home for the holidays, and my mother, who smoked for thirty years of her life or so, doesn't know I smoke. It seems that the strongest non-smokers are former smokers. In any case, I'm not looking forward to admitting to it, so I've been sneaking around for the past year and some.
I've been smoking steadily since Frenchy left.
And actually, I think my mother knows. She found an Altoids box with chocolate-flavoured indian cigarettes a few months ago in my apartment and figured that it was pot. And never said anything to me about it. Lina told me because she was there when it happened.
Last night I dreamed I was smoking pot with my parents. I miss my parents. I miss pot.