I’ve been realising over the past couple of weeks why smokers are so often hated. It only took a few smoke-free days for me to start recovering my senses of smell and taste. Phwoar, do we reek or what! (For those who’ve just arrived, I’ve been chain-smoking for four years or so and it’s time to put the cigarettes down now.)
And to think I used to wonder how people could guess that I was a smoker without needing to see me light up. Well, knowing that I now smell of the most sensual Gucci Rush 2 rather than an ashtray is a pretty big ego-booster. A needed one at that since I wasn’t too happy about the weight gain that comes hand in hand with quitting. (Fortunately I only gained three pounds and it’s all ready starting to come off.)
Willie and I went to play some pool late last night and had the terrible misfortune to be stuck next to a pair of neanderthals. Whenever they weren’t taking a shot they were either blatantly staring at me or giving Willie, “Do you have a problem punk?” looks. We couldn’t tell what they were saying about us since they were speaking in French, but it was obviously something vulgar. Ah well, I am glad that Willie himself doesn’t have too many caveman instincts, and so knows that it’s sometimes better to just shrug things off than to start any trouble.
And since I haven’t really mentioned the Olympics yet, just a note that this would be one of the times that I love having two countries to call home. Twice as much cheering to do and twice as many golds, yay.