Dear Wigleaf,

You've caught me having a bit of a moment here. I haven't smoked a cigarette in 9 days and 3 hours. I know this might not be what you expected, but — well — if you've ever been a smoker, you'll understand the inescapable nature of the vibes just now. I haven't even told my mother yet. She'll be so proud. Are you proud? I hope so. It's been sixteen years. My mouth tastes like a mouth again. I haven't tasted a mouth in ages. Even other people's mouths haven't tasted like mouths because the smoking messed up my senses. But mouth is a flavor. It isn't the taste of Shelby's mouth though. Her mouth tastes like toothpaste. Which makes sense because we mostly kiss at night. It was a much nicer surprise than what I learned after petting a stray dog yesterday. Anyway, that's here, in this room, tasting mouth and trying to forget how many fucking stray dogs I've pet, then touched my face, over the past sixteen years—oh, God. Forgive me for not being able to focus on much else.

all the best,
Ben