Quitting Smoking

Quitting Smoking; it's a gerund with a gerund as its direct object. I didn't think gerunds could take objects, but somehow "quitting smoking" manages to be grammatical (as far as I can tell, and I fancy myself something of an expert).

It's not altogether exciting news. I didn't really set about talking about it on the blog, distracted as I was with matters of Vlad. It's not as though my smoking made any significant difference in the stories I've told you. Just take everything from In Des Peres to the present, and add "And then I smoked a cigarette" to the end of every other paragraph. There's the difference.

So maybe I'm a little irritable from the withdrawal. Even now, I still want them. I'm telling myself that I've got years and years of life ahead of me, so I can still afford to trade those years for a drug. I really want to do this, maybe to prove that I'm not completely impotent. I always thought that I smoked to give myself human problems; to escape the ease of upper-middle-classdom.

I'm full of shit, so you don't have to tell me that in the comments section. Maybe I'll just disable comments on this post; I hear Alan's been doing that lately.

Wish me luck.

That is all.