Addiction, Temptation, and Rebellion

The last cigarette I had was at some point between 0130 and 0230 hrs, 01 January, 2012.

It is 2006 hrs on January 3rd. I have still not had a cigarette.

A coworker smoked thrice in front of me today. I didn't mind; I wasn't tempted. The only part that made me uncomfortable was that my nose has already stopped being a smoker's nose and started being a possible-smoker's nose.

Let me explain to the non-smokers reading this. My tobacky isn't actually whacky; smokers hate the smell of cigarettes, when they can actually smell them. But the smoke before we smoke? It smells of campfires and s'mores. It smacks of fireplaces and fine wine. It's tied to memories of someone else who at some point made us want to smoke, even if we didn't then.

It never smells like a hot ticket to lung cancer. It never smells like a sure-fire way to never get kissed. It smells wonderful that first time.

The third cig I smelled today was when I got back to this point. Psychologically, this is a bad place; I should have den-mothers surrounding me or somesuch.  But the two reasons I started smoking were so stupid, I think I'll be able to hold out.

I started smoking to piss my father's ghost off. And I started smoking because the woman I idolized smoked, and I thought it was part and parcel of being a writer.

Smoking is a lot like what I imagine marrying a movie star might be. You pour your heart and soul into it, and they're just there for the hot minute where you love them the way no one else can, then they're back to basking in their own ego-centrism.  It's not about you; it's about them. It's not about you; it's about how much nicotine you're getting. In the end, pick your metaphor: either way, you're killing yourself slowly.

My father always told me if I ever lit a cigarette, he'd break both my hands.

The first cig I ever had was two days after my father's funeral. I'd love to say it was motivated by something other than "sure, come break my hands, pops," but I was pissed at him for dying on me.

There are seven leftover cigarettes in the NYE leftover pack.

They're in a bag somewhere in this room.

I'm not sure which one. But there's a lighter with 'em, and another in the toiletries bag.

I'm starting to think those smokes should be float-tested. Cortez upon reaching the new world, burnt his ships. Some say it was to prove to the enemy the depth of his commitment to conquer them. Others say that it was to motivate his own men, to show them that there was no going back: victory or death.

Cortez would break each cigarette and drop it in the toilet or over the balcony right now.

I kinda like the way Cortez thinks.

I'm not smoking tonight. I'm not sure if I'm flushing those last seven smokes. Some part of me is actually stronger knowing that the temptation to stray and qualify the straying is there; it somehow prevents me from doing so, strange as that might seem.

Do not, do not ever, let someone you love start smoking. It is the most insidious poison I have ever known. And trust me when I say that I've done some exploring and interviewing.

I am thankful for chantix and willpower tonight. I am thankful for peer pressure and self-critical thinking.

I am grateful to some beautiful person who has no idea how they feed into this, but they're part of the reason this is an imperative for me.  Not because it was a request, but because I've been acting like a fool this long, and it's time I acted my age, or at least somewhere close to it.

For the record: Nicotine is a vice. Emotive force is nature. The two are separate. And obviously, I believe one trumps the other.