I used to be sad, now I'm just bored with you.

So why, despite last night's mostly successful experiment with moderation (that, like all things, being a purely relative concept), why do I still feel like 30 miles of muddy road this morning? Doubtless the combo of too much rye and not near enough sleep are culprits, but I suspect the ringleader of this merry band of ills is none other than my old friend cigarettes. Cigarettes and I have what can best be described as a love/hate relationship. There are periods where I smoke entirely too much in a go, only to regret it later when I awake with a hacking cough that ejects a rainbow-coloured assortment of fluids from my lungs and a dull pounding in my head. And the sniffles. And don't get me started on the cancer. Altogether, that's simply too steep a price to pay for a few microseconds of nicotine-laced pleasure. So, having smoked a good half a pack last night, I can say that I hope I never touch cigarettes again (though it should be noted that the preceeding statement comes in the form of a wish and not a declaration). Some bad habits are best left by the wayside before they can do any more damage than they've already inflicted.