i was going to get a tattoo of the number thirteen a few fridays ago. instead i slept in and quit smoking. that was seventeen days ago. for the first ten, i used this nicotine inhaler thing. basically a tampon that i sucked on when i wanted nicotine. then i stopped altogether last week. the first three days nicotine free were excruciating. now i feel ok physically but tonight i waited on fourty second street for the bus back to jersey and i sat on the sidewalk, barely wet from the days rain, and everything screamed for a cigarette--the early morning cars, their wheels slick on the pavement, the rolling gravely sound and the misty fading headlights on the approach, the tail-lights as they passed, every city worker and drunk that passed, commuters and the neon signs high over times square. when i got on the bus, it was too much to take sitting there, and i put on minor threat, hoping to take some comfort in another's rage against the vices i've tried so hard to put behind me, and i started to remember the reasons why a cigarette sounds so fucking good, and there's really only one, when it comes down to it--fear. that i won't be cool if i don't smoke. basically. that i won't be sexy or punk rock or artistic or creative or tough. and it was good for the bus ride home to hear ian tell me that i was plenty punk enough not smoking, maybe even more so. cause man, smoking cigarettes just feeds money to the capitalist tobacco companies blah blah blah blah but goddamn if i wouldn't kill for one right now.