"Tell Me Why I Don't Like Mondays"

Nicotine. That's fucking why. Sodding nicotine.

See, ye've got Friday night out in the pub, with pretty much constant smoking. Saturday afternoon writing at the PC, with pretty much constant smoking. Saturday night in the pub, with pretty much constant smoking. Sunday afternoon writing again, with pretty much constant smoking. Sunday night either in the pub or writing, with - is there a pattern developing here? -pretty much constant smoking. So Monday comes round and it's an early start after the weekend of late nights and long lies, and with three hours sleep or thereabouts to refresh me, I crawl out of bed, I shave, I shower, and I drag my sorry ass to work with a newly invigorated nicotine habit.

Now do I have the good sense to take the (hourly) fag breaks neccessary to keep the little tobacco monkey on my back happy? Course I don't. Because, like any nicotine junky I suffer under this foolish delusion that I really don't smoke that much. Honestly, I don't. Why, I can get by with just a fag at the train station in the morning, one after lunch, then one on the way home. That's all I need, man, I swear it is... until the evening comes and I sit down at the PC and out come the Rizla and the Drum Mild. But hey, that's just when I'm writing, just to help me get in the zone, just the odd one here and there, like. It's not serious.

And on most days it isn't. But, O, the dreaded Mondays. O, the dark Mondays of psychopathic mood swings, black Mondays of the panther spirit of addiction, hated Mondays of twitching wrath. "Shoot 'em all down"? Screw that. I wanna take a fucking lead pipe to their soft and pointy little skulls. I don't even know who "they" are but I still wanna bash their brains in. And I've got to get my shopping on the way home, fer fuck's sake.

Bollocks. I really need to smoke more.