It’s been seven full weeks now since I’ve quit smoking. And I won’t lie; it hasn’t been easy. But as difficult as it has been to quit, I am that much prouder of myself and of my willpower. I think it was hardest to let go of that persona of the emaciated musician and writer I wanted to embody as a smoker, but I suppose I’ll have to make music and write as a healthy member of society now.
On another note, I fear that I will run out of topics for my blog posts eventually, or, God forbid, soon. I really only write about what I know, which consists of melodramatic portrayals of and contemplations on heartbreak, the making and breaking of relationships, and my current generally lackluster life. It is a great hope that I can continue to entertain my considerably paltry audience with my thoughts, dreams, and observations, but the truth is that there may be many more posts approaching of materialistic wish lists and descriptions of what I ate for breakfast. For the sake of the general public, though, I will try to limit those posts, or at least eat something really awesome to describe in a future post.
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