It's come to this...
I fell off the wagon.
I fell off the wagon and hit my head on every board, nut, bolt, and screw on the way down.
I'm smoking again.
I gave in like France in WWII.
No shots were fired, no blood spilled.
I gazed upon my ex and embraced her as if we'd never parted.
You may now call me the nicotine slut.
I call it stress.
You call it an excuse.
I say you're right.
Either way, it's a crutch, and it's jammed up into my armpit nice and hard.