It’s not like I look sexy when I do it (I feel maybe a little sexy, but I know I look far from sexy). It’s not like it fulfills me, makes me feel good, or satisfies me. In fact, it bankrupts me, makes me feel light-headed and kind of ick, and it is the furthest thing from satisfying to leave the house smelling like flowers and end up smelling like ashtrays. And yet, I continue to smoke. I buy a pack, I smoke a pack, I buy a pack, I smoke a pack, steady as a metronome. That ticking sound you hear? The counting off of the minutes of my life every puff snips off the end.
I am aware that it’s a filthy habit, and I continue to maintain it,
despite the fact that my boyfriend refuses to wear a seatbelt while I
continue to smoke. “As long as you risk your life, I’ll risk mine.” The
thought panics me, him being in an accident. I keep telling him, “I’m
going to quit! I will! Stop pressuring me! Wear your seatbelt!! I
shriek. I have a nic fit. I smoke a cigarette. There’s a part of me
that doesn’t want to quit, especially when you tell me how bad it is for me and how very much I should.
going to quit. I will. Stop pressuring me. I always quit, when I’m
ready to quit. I’m almost ready to quit, you know. I finished my pack
last night–I gave away half of it. I haven’t had any today. Am I on my
way to being smoke-free? Shh! Don’t pressure me. Give me candy, because
I feel a craving coming on.