I was feeling guilty for inhaling my cancer stick on my break today and thought I would write about the addiction. My cigarette of choice is the sweet, cool, menthol infused awesomeness that is the Newport.
Look – addictions are not always fun and largely ignored, like my mother. Often they are serious character flaws and smoking has become my cross to bear. That’s not arrogant, is it? To compare my smoking to the Passion of Jesús?
I began seriously smoking (not counting times I “tried” a friend’s cigarette or pretended to smoke to look totally badass) in 2003 while in Iraq. As oft reported, war was indeed hell – but it seemed more heavenly to those that smoked. They seemed to have a way to release everyday pressures and were able to relax. I convinced myself that smoking would relieve those stressful times and I haven’t been the same since.
Every fellow smoker that I have ever met wishes they could quit and I’m no different. It is a disgusting habit that alienates friends and family. I go to lengths (not great) to hide the habit by always having Axe body-spray and Altoids in the car. So, why don’t I quit? How come you know someone who knows someone who quit cold turkey after smoking three packs a day for seventy years and I can’t quit after only smoking half a pack a day for about five years? Well, screw you and the horse your seventy year old acquaintance rode in on, that’s why! I’ve tried to quit more times than I can remember but, the simple truth is, I do not want to quit.
No, I don’t want throat, lung, or oral cancer. No, I don’t like that I smell like an ashtray. But, what I do like is the social aspect. Smokers are the most social people in America (behind Tea Partiers, apparently) and when I’m in a new environment I automatically have an in with strangers through smoking. Ultimately I smoke because it’s become a part of my identity – the same way some boys will wear mascara. The only pro I have is that not everyone can tell when I’ve been crying.
Wish me luck in quitting in ’10!
