10,000 Cigarettes

This. I really want to quit.

"Red, gold and green -Karma Chameleon?"

You're all set for work. Hair shampooed. Conditioned. Blow-dried. Fixed. Put on the best perfume. Dressed freshly pressed. And you'll pass through thousand candidates of lung cancer victims at the main entrance of the office. Blowned by their smoke. In red. Gold. Green. And sometimes with indonesian tobacco. Choco flabvored bat cigars. You want to beat all of them, but you end up joining them. And you enter the office with a smell like you've been cooking in your grandmother's dirty kitchen.

You're cutting your life short in every 15-30 minute breaks of your daily office life with every cigarette butts you ticked on the cigarette bin. And there's fire. You wanna spit fire instead of the exhaling the smoke up in the air. As soon as the smoke fades, you see you're dead and you can't even solicite a coffin from the Philip Morris Company.

My mentor told me that to quit smoking is to stop right away.

This is my resolution. Not this year. Not on my birthday. Maybe until I'll meet someone who can convince me to stop.

What am I talking?

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