If I could, I would smoke for the rest of my life.
Not because I enjoy it; and not because it makes me cool, and certainly not because my friends are doing it. I simply started a long, long, time ago and now it is as much a part of who I am as my nose or my eyes or my voice or my cough.
There’s no getting away from it. Once you smoke, the stink stays on you.
So I quit; but not because I really wanted to. I quit because I am afraid of being a loser, and smokers are, in fact, the biggest group of losers around. The science is clear: smokers die young. And unless you are a Bible Thumping Moron or a Muslim Loon, no one really wants to die at 55 with two black lungs and a wheeze. The only reason people smoke is for the addiction, and the addiction will kill you just as sure as getting stoned on crack will put you in a box. It just takes longer.
So I quit. Cold turkey. For months.
And then I started again. And then I quit again. And then I started again. I stopped cigs, and went to cigars. Then back again to cigs. I think I even tried a pipe at one point, trying to convince myself that anything is better than a cig. It’s not, I know that, but my brain keeps telling me that it is and anyway, you can try to quit again tomorrow.
Ugh. It’s snowing outside but once I finish this sentence I will go out, have a smallish cigar, then head off the bed. Why? Because all I really know anymore is that if I could, I would smoke for the rest of my life.
Tomorrow I try again.