He reached for the pack of Pall Mall on the nightstand. ‘Just one more … after this pack I quit’. He didn’t usually prefer this brand, but alas, he could not find the one he liked. Taking one cigarette out of the small blue pack, Gareth felt a little annoyed. Although he knew what he was smoking, he missed the sound the little menthol ball of the Kent Click made under the light pressure of his teeth. This couldn’t possibly be the last pack as it tasted all wrong.
It was always the same story with him.
He wanted to quit, he did quit…over and over again…It was easy. Unlike his
friends, he didn’t associate smoking with coffee. He could go out to a coffee
shop with them and talk for hours at a time, sipping espresso while they
surrounded themselves in layers of smoke. The problem arose when he got back
home…To him, smoking went hand in hand with reading, with thinking, with
writing.
And he was about to do just that… He
fancied himself a writer, a poor example of one anyway. The only successful
thing he ever wrote was ‘ The adventures of Professor Poopypants ’. It
literally gave him an army of groupies that consisted of his seven year old sister
and her friends, and that was 5 years ago. Now, an English major and an aspiring
novelist, he felt the pressure to produce something. His professors always said
he should just sit down and write, write every day. He did. It was crap.
Somehow, after an extraordinary beginning, and it was always extraordinary…he
got bored of his characters and killed them all.
