Freedom from Fags

I haven’t smoked a cigarette in a month, and yes, I want one right now. However, this time is different from the other times I’ve quit because before it was a health issue and now it’s a moral one.  Health wasn’t exactly a good enough motivator. I’ve known for some time now that I’m immortal.  I should’ve died several times due to a series of bad decisions I started making when I turned sixteen, and I really hope I’m done with that, but I haven’t found a cure for blacking out with which I’m satisfied…and properly hydrated.

 I had to quit smoking because I started to feel like I was getting smoked and not the other way around. It became way too much like slavery. Not feeling shackled to the point of smoking before and after every class feels great. I also started to feel uneducated and unattractive which are not goals of mine. Don’t get me wrong, I like almost everything about smoking cigarettes. I like to have one after meals, have an excuse to leave the party for a moment, and I especially like watching something burn for five minutes whenever I want. It’s the pyro in me. I even miss smelling my fingers when I can’t smoke yet and floating into a room on a billowing waft.

 Of course, I don’t miss throwing down that cash when I could be spending it on dank ass weed. I still have a totally abusive relationship with weed that I have no intention of ending. I like to hit it, and it likes to hit me back.

 The weirdest thing happened, too. I can actually smell other people’s cigarettes and cigarette stench. The fact that I never could before must mean that I always stunk, or I was always smoking a cigarette myself. I thought it made me deep and creative and quite frankly, I’m just as tortured without them. 

 I was hoping that after college I’d be a rock star until I died in a fiery career-making catastrophe before I turned thirty. That plan seems to be slipping away. On top of that, my brothers are the two most important things in my life and they both think smoking is disgusting. Joe even said once if he had tits (which I very much do) he definitely wouldn’t smoke. As the oldest, I cannot set that example. Joe wants the three of us to be neighbors when we are old like my Grandpa and his sisters, and even though I’m afraid I’m never going to die, spending those last years with my brothers when we’re all senile and broken sounds really romantic.