Why I Can’t Quit Smoking
I love it but I wish I didn’t
Cigarettes are my best friend. We live together, work together, look up at the stars, walk along the beach, sit through sunsets, stay up late watching movies, and escape the world when we are alone. When I am sad, cigarettes pick me up. When I am happy, they never harsh my buzz. When things go wrong, they are where I turn first, and they’ve never abandoned me in a time of need. When I need to think, they help me formulate my thoughts. On hard days, no one bothers us if we need to take some time together away from it all. All I need to say is, “I’m having a cigarette,” and people think, “Well, I’ll give them some time alone then.” There is just one tiny problem: They are trying to kill me.
For 12 years we’ve been together, and the whole time, they’ve been sneaking around behind my back, making my teeth yellow and my breath, hair, and clothes stink; lowering my immune system; constricting my blood pressure; increasing my cholesterol; then giving me anxiety, erectile dysfunction, and — eventually — cancer. It is less healthy than a daily kick in the dick.
A week hasn’t gone by in 12 years where I haven’t spent at least five minutes sitting and wondering how I can love something that is doing so many horrible things to me. Usually, I am pondering this over a cigarette. Then, I resolve to quit someday. I…
