Quitter

All right, I’m three cigarettes away from quitting.

They’re lying here in front of me, and I wish there were more—I wish there were endless rivers of beautiful, tasty cigarettes in front of me—but there aren’t. There are three. And then I’m supposed to quit. In fact, Mr. Shakes and I are both quitting.

I feel really nervous about quitting, for the stupidest reason imaginable—I’ve smoked for 12 years, and it’s such a part of my identity; I can’t imagine myself without a cigarette. How am I going to sit at the computer and write a post without a fag dangling from my lips, the lovely smoke curling around between myself and the monitor? I also feel really nervous because I’m scared to fail.

Now I have 2 and ¾ cigarettes left.

Smoking is, of course, the most disgusting habit in the world, and I love it endlessly. It makes me short of breath, lethargic, congested, and stinky, and I can’t imagine why I would ever consider giving it up because it makes me so happy. When I see public service announcements about the dangers of smoking, they make me want a cigarette. This is my sickness. I am a serious, serious addict, and I’m going to die if I don’t stop. Still, this has no effect on me. I suffer from a complete disconnect between the reality of smoking and my slavish devotion to it.

The insane amounts of money I spend on cigarettes goes to Big Tobacco which then goes to the GOP. I’m literally killing myself for Republicans. Sadly, that—and the fact that smoking is getting far too expensive—are the only reasons I can convince myself to give it up. And I really hope it sees me through, because when I start jonesing, there are going to be some desperately ugly moments, and I need my hatred for Bush and his corporate contributors to pull me through.

2 and ½ cigarettes left.

I may be pretty cranky for awhile. I hope that, if nothing else, the shame of admitting to you all that I’ve started again will keep me from doing just that.

Why did I ever start smoking? What an asshole.

2 cigarettes left.