17 days

Yes, that's right. 17 days of pure torture, of pure brain battle, of pure doubt, of pure bi-polar-goodness. My friend says that a person quits a habit after thirty mother fucking days. And I ask myself, "What is the meaning of all this?" And then I think of how my alveoli are procreating, having orgies, drinking like mad, rejoicing that they are alive. Good for the bastards, bad for my neurons, who are masochists by nature, like tarsiers, they want to commit suicide. Unlike tarsiers, they do not want to kill themselves out of loneliness, my goodness,what a lot! But the fact remains that these neurons just cannot take the world, and they would rather get burned than face suffering. So they connive with one another to influence the centrality-of-it-all, and they come up with a scheming tactic to inject themselves with nicotine, highly orgasmic at first, but deadly in just seconds. Those scheming bastards. But of course, not today, not just yet.


17 days, going on 18.