I’m Killing Me

I’ve been thinking about death a lot lately. Who can blame me what with the death of Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett, Michael Jackson, Billy Mays and now Karl Malden. Last night I dreamt that Christina Aguilera delivered my baby in between concert sets while on tour in Japan. Don’t dreams of birth actually mean death?

It probably also doesn’t help that I’ve been contributing to my own death this week as well. I don’t know how it happen but somehow I have a pack of cigarettes in my house and they are rapidly depleting. Can I blame the economy? How about the lack of paid work I have right now? Yeah, that’s it. Take my meager earnings and blow it on kill sticks. That’s wicked smot. It doesn’t help that I have a partner in crime living right in my house either. Just when I think of throwing the pack out, H (a.k.a. Satan’s personal cigarette girl) asks me if I would like to join him for a smoke. Gah!

I know, I know. Here we are getting all healthy (hands thrown in air with wild waving and sarcastic exasperation) and then blackening our lungs. It’s sick. It’s stupid. As if I wasn’t already pre-disposed to lung cancer as it is. As if I didn’t have two kids to live for. What the hell is my freakin’ problem? Oh, wait. I know what it is. It’s an addiction and I absolutely adore smoking too (smacks forehead). I think while it stinks (literally) and shaves years off my life it is divine. It’s not cool. It makes you age prematurely and it is quite frankly disgusting. But there it is. That dangerous, evil little addiction. Each time I do it I try to envision myself on an oxygen tank, my lungs all black. It works for the moment.

If I don’t stop I’m going to look like that lady I saw last week. I was out for an evening run and there she was short, satin robe and all, standing on her front step, smoking an extra long cig. She looked like death and I wanted to stop and say, “Hold up. Is there an ironic hipster movie set in the 70s being filmed around here? Because lady, you got the part.” I don’t want that. I don’t want to wheeze while running either.

I’ve got to climb back on the wagon for good. I’m 33 effin years old for crying out loud. I know better.

*Read about my plans for nirvana at Honest Baby and how I’m a bit fried on the blogosphere at DC Metro Moms.