The thing I hate most about quitting the old coffin nails is that the moment my brain drops into neutral, the ‘Light Me’ lamp begins to pulsate in my head. It’s like I can’t have a slack moment of nothingness where I can just stare at the wall or consider why there is air or contemplate what the next sentence is going to be. Instead, I have to shift into ‘fight off the urge’ mode which isn’t a terribly restful, or enjoyable, mode to be in.

And you can save your ‘Go EJ!’ ra-ras cause it ain’t like I really want to quit cigarettes. I enjoy my Nat Shermans. Nice clean tobacco without all the crappy additives, a light taste of mint, what’s not to like? And I’m not quiting because of the alleged health issues? Hell, if I were that concerned about health issues, I’d have to give up everything I eat, drink and breathe. Have you read the ingredients on the things you eat and drink lately? You damn near need a chemical dictionary to figure out what you stuffing down your throat. And what the hell is with all that high fructose corn syrup anyway? It’s in every damn thing on the shelf. What the hell is wrong with good old sugar? And salt! Do they even put salt in food anymore?

And what about the quality of the air you breathe? Planes, trains and automobiles oh my. I’d rather spend a day in a room full of smokers than an hour walking down any major thoroughfare. Nah, any health issues associated with cigarettes don’t bother me. Everything kills ya.

So, why am I quiting? Well, I hate to say it but Uncle Sam’s the cause. This last tax hike has just pushed the price way out of my range. Eight plus bucks for a pack of Nat’s finest? Sorry, but I don’t think so. And I’m damned if I’ll smoke those additive-ridden cheap things. Those additives are gonna kill ya faster than the tar and nicotine will. What with all these price hikes, it’s gotten to the point where the Nicoderm patch is cheaper so I guess I’ll just smoke through my skin.

Not that the patch isn’t a real pain in the nether regions itself. I have to go that route cause the gum is even worse. A taste like old sweat-socks. Pop one or two of those between the old teeth and my stomach begins to do flip-flops. The patch only makes my skin itch, my muscles ache, my ears ring and plays havoc with sleep. Can’t complain too much about the dreams, though. Like taking acid in your sleep. Weird and colorful.

It’s a damn good thing I haven’t turned into one of those snarling, craving beasts ready to snap the head off anything that comes too close. A real bitch bitch bitch, complain complain complain, kill kill kill, can’t find a good thing to say about anything kind of guy. Don’t ya just hate it when someone gets like that?

Oh, and you know another thing I hate about quitting? I hate that most everything stinks. Do you Nicotine Nazis actually get used to this smell? Yuck. I’m going to have to start carrying a nosegay or something. Won’t that do wonders for my image. As it is, I find myself following smokers cause, you know, that smoke sure does smell fine.

Technorati Tags: coffin nails, cigarettes, Nat Sherman, high fructose corn syrup, Nicoderm

Time has stood still in this place. The trailer first parked here in the early 60s sits crumpled and overgrown a hundred feet from where I write, it’s corroded aluminum skin split in several places. Rotted books and magazines, boxes of old clothes, split logs and peeling strips of paneling cover the sagging floor and spill out to merge with the wet earth. The tires the trailer once rolled on crumble at a touch. A rabbit-eared TV, a rusted stove, a round cornered refrigerator, it’s door open and hanging by one hinge, wooden tables and chairs returning to dust, window glass and engine parts are woven together by the dusty strands of a million dead spiders.

I slept in that trailer long ago, spent a winter sitting by a roaring wood stove and sneaking peeks at Playboy magazines in the shed nearby. That shed collapsed long ago, it’s green shingled roof now covering worm eaten books and all those pretty girls and who knows what other once-upon-a-time treasures. I can see the old freezer where once we stashed the butchered remains of a cow hit by a car and left on the side of the road to die. There is a box of old hand guns in there as well as several rifles. More piles of rotting clothes, twisted leather shoes, canning jars with rusted lids, several suitcases, a leather satchel so aged and weather beaten it disintegrated in my hand when I tried to pick it up.

The ground around the shed is littered with washing machines, stoves, row boats, lawn mowers, metal chairs, a swing set, ladders, and tools of every kind. There are metal garage doors, a pile of sheet-metal roofing strips, rolls of aluminum wire and steel cable and enough automotive parts to build a whole, if somewhat weird looking, car, as if the eight or nine rusted hulks I’ve so far found in this Floridian jungle weren’t enough junk cars already.

Not far from the shed, the all but buried remains of another out building becomes one with the earth. I slaughtered rabbits and cleaned catfish there long ago. From what I can see of it now, it looks as though my mother may have converted it to a small green house. Numerous panes of glass, rows of red clay pots merge into the darkness beneath a thick canopy of green. I’m told she planted the giant Magnolia tree that stretches skyward amidst the tall Pines and Oaks draped in Spanish Moss and I’ve noticed other plants growing wild amongst the dense ground cover that I suspect aren’t natural to this area. She was into growing things, my Ma. That’s one of the few things I know about her.

There’s 30,000 square feet to this property, nearly an acre of land. What I’ve described above sits on maybe a quarter of that. The grand tour continues in a couple of days. Y’all come back now, ya hear?

It’s been my experience that when you move with cats, you’ll lose one. I had hoped that wouldn’t happen in this case, there’s been way too much loss already, but it did.

Grey-boy, who was a girl, went to blue on Wednesday. She was barely a year old, came when you called her and loved to chase bugs. The world is never the same when something you love dies.

Miss you, baby.