"Tomorrow Is Another Day!" or, Memo to Laura

Fuck it ...

I quit.

Yesterday, as I ran to my office to "sneak" (she knew what I was doing) a cigarette, Laura followed me and cracked wise about my habit. I responded with vague promises to look into quitting sometime in the indefinite future, acknowledging the fact that smoking is bad for me, but bragging (irrelevantly, really) that my gums are in great shape and that I have never had a cavity. (That's right, bitches: Never!)

But I faced my trump.

"I don't want you to die of cancer!" Laura exclaimed, shattering my excuses like the frames of so many pairs of drug-store sunglasses knocked off a desk by a nervy cat.

And I thought: Maybe I don't want to continue inhaling (and absorbing) such charming toxins as carbon monoxide, and formaldehyde (formaldehyde!?!>, hydrogen cyanide (cyanide!?!) and benzine - not to mention ye olde tar and nicotine - which I have (more or less voluntarily sucked back like a baby at its mother's teat for the past 22 or so years.

Laura's words - and her tone (not nagging, but selfishly caring) - have been echoing through my addict's head like an inertialess billiard-ball on frictionless felt for the past 24 hours.

And so, my love ...

And so ...

I quit.

Tonight, I'll smoke my brains out, one cigarette after another, like a castaway setting afire his last remaining bundle of faggots when a plane flies over.

Tomorrow ...

Tomorrow, I'll stagger awake (yes, I'm drinking now) and ignore the change in my purse, refuse the call of the corner store, and likely light a bowl before noon.

But no tobacco.

I am too selfish to want to risk dying on you. I won't do without the joy of your company before God genetics or a random SUV strikes me down.

I quit.

Laura, I'm going to be bitchy; I'm going to chew gum like Homer chews donuts; I'm going to drink like the proverbial fish for the first week or so; and I'll probably ask for your help, your support. I won't like it. I don't like inflicting my weakness on others.

But I love you and I don't want to die on you.

I quit.

A Marriage, and An Old Friendship

I'm going to BC in September. My cousin Wendy is getting married - or, maybe she'll already have jumped the weed. Whatever. The marriage, she says, is between her and her beloved; that ceremony will be between them.

The rest of us are invited to the celebratory party, and it doesn't matter a damn whether it is before or after the nuptials.

Besides, this is my journal, so I'm talking about myself, right?

Wendy and I are among four cousins who were born within a year of one another. All 4 of us share a bond (to a greater or lesser extent, but one that - for all of us - extends beyond mere chronology), as if we were members of what Vonnegut called a "karass", a group of people who know each other, and care for one another, far more deeply than simple aquaintanceship would allow.

Wendy and I knew each other as very small children, then she (and her family) moved to the West Coast when she and I were maybe 4, or 5.

We didn't see one another for close to 20 years. And when we did, young misfits exploring the universe of possibilities, it was in Montreal, and it felt as if we'd known each other all our lives. (Well, there were a couple of meetings before that, but I'm too drunk to go into details.)

Point is, we like each other. We were friends, instantly, as if we'd known each other all through the years of our separation. We've gotten together whenever we were within a thousand miles of one another, we've lived together, and we've partied hard.

And now she's getting married.

And I'm going out to Victoria to celebrate the nuptials.

And Wendy has offered to pay part of my flight out there. I don't need the money (and so won't take it), but the offer makes me feel all warm and cuddly. What a lovely gesture, from one of my best friends (even if she is family).