nic fit

in that i don't believe in resolutions, it is with no fanfare or ceremony that i quietly attempted to make it through this day without smoking. i now find myself in mid-afternoon wondering what the fuck i'm doing and who the fuck i'm trying to kid.

it's not like i'm down deep in the trenches of this election, breaking skin while hammering lumber into frozen ground, traipsing across the arctic tundra knocking on doors of the electorate, breaking fingernails on a phone canvass, sipping ass-like coffee racking up hours in a dusty poorly-lit converted storefront campaign office.

i'm not in the uber inner sanctum, flying high in the leader's jet doing sharp minute-by-minute analysis, crunching polling data, inventing sound bites, feeling important about my uncanny sense of strategy.

but i'm riveted, like other sicko junkies, by hourly updates about policy announcements, polling trends, public relations gaffs. i follow pundits. i pay attention to who says what on behalf of whom, and how. in more than one capacity am i trying to stay on top of how things are going with our campaign here in la belle province, how our limited staff and our mind-blowing strategy are panning out.

i'm spinning in this week's news cycle - one political promise after another, including my favourite, the liberal promise of partial compensation of tuition fees that are 80% higher than 10 years ago thanks to their own hikes.

the thing is, there's a whole fuck of a lot to to keep an eye on, and that eye is somehow more acutely focussed if a cigarette is handy to the lips below.

but why would i tell myself to just wait and quit smoking after the election? there is never a good time to quit. guess i could also wait until after my birthday, after the torino olympics, after the winter, after they bring back the swan with me on it, after i achieve total enlightenment.

fuck it. i'm off now to the couche tard.