Yesterday I felt like I was in a Dr Seuss book called Rosie Loves To Smoke

Like how in Green Eggs and Ham where the one who is not Sam I Am says that he won't eat them on a house or a car or a tree or a train or in a box or with a goat or a mouse or a fox. Everything he sees and does is filtered through a lens called "I Won't Eat Green Eggs And Ham Here." That's how I felt yesterday. Everything I saw and did was just filtered through a lens called "Oh Great Here Is Yet Another Place Where I Cannot Smoke". Of course I am glad I quit smoking, but still I miss it A MILLION. My inner monologue yesterday went: Oh great I can't smoke outside St Pauls, or the Tate, or on the bridge, or with James, or with Simon, or at Beth's, or on the station platform, or outside my window, or fucking ANYWHERE. Quitting smoking has been an actual definitive experience for me. I've obviously led a very sheltered life, if I feel like the fact that I stopped smoking is something that sums me up as a person. But really I do a bit feel like that. Yesterday I thought about how much gum I must have chewed in the last year and got thoroughly nauseated.