It's been a week since I touched my lips to her. A week of longing, desire, and not having her constantly by my side for succour when I need it. She was my escape, my bolt hole for times of procrastination.
She was good for my soul, but bad for my heart.
My friends, aside from a select few, abhorred her. She wasn't welcome, and if I was going to be in her company I'd have to absent myself rather than bring her to them.
Having said goodbye to her, however, I feel better for it, mentally if not physically.
My Lady Nicotine, you and I are through. Love you as I did, on and off for years, it's time to move on. I know I've said it before and you've lured me back, but I'm not nineteen and bulletproof any longer, and you're a bad influence on my health.
I'll miss you at parties and social gatherings, when I used you as an excuse to escape to a quiet corner and be free of the crowd. I miss you when I load new mail in my inbox each morning; remember how I ran to you before having to cope with the insistent demands of up to 50 new messages (excluding spam)? I miss you when I need ideas; those minutes we spent together gave me solutions to problems, plots to write and much more.
Broken hearts mend over time, but not if they're physically damaged. This emotional need, these cravings, will go. Farewell, my Lady!
Proud of you! She is a harsh mistress, but sings the siren song indeed!
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