I like smoking. No, I love smoking. After a good meal, while driving, while on the phone, while relaxing, when I’m stressed, after sex, I love smoking. I love the taste, I love the sensation, and I love how it can relax me when I’m wound up. I love using the cigarette as a pointer in conversations. I love it. I’ve been smoking for almost 30 years and I abso-fucking-lutely love it.
Now, I am quitting smoking for the umpteenth time. I’ve quit before for various reasons (bets, bad colds, money was tight, whatever). I’ve decided I’m going to do it again. Cold turkey. No more. Not another puff. I hate it.
I hate it with a vengeance. I hate the nervous tics and tremors I’m getting. I hate the cravings for a cigarette. I hate the desire to eat just so I can do something about the oral fixation. I hate the way m
My days seem to drag because I am not taking smoke breaks. I hate the irritability.
No, it’s not irritability. Being irritable is when you are annoyed by lousy drivers. I found that I am going off about minor things like a piece of lint that was stuck to my shirt when I pulled it out of the dryer. I lost my temper when I couldn’t find a matching Tupperware ® lid and so I threw every last fucking piece of kitchenware out of the cabinet and kicked them across the floor. I blew up at the moronic TV programming and the fuckwit executives hiring goddamn chimpanzees to write scripts.
I exploded when I found that our stupid fucking gerbil decided that last night would be the perfect time to just die for no reason. It wasn’t sick, abused, mistreated or given to Richard Gere but last night it had to fucking croak. I had to calmly tell my 6 year old daughter that Cinnamon (or Honey, or Ginger. She changed it’s name once a week) had gone to that great Habitrail in the sky. We then had to bury the fucking rodent. First we had to dig through the snow, then the frozen ground, plant the little rat, cover it up and say a prayer for it’s soul. I deserve an Academy Award for how I acted. Best Performance by a Father Suffering from Nicotine Withdrawal at a Pet’s Funeral.
The world sucks. Everything and everybody sucks. If OBL nuked the city I’d fucking cheer because the whole city is filled with dolts, morons and shitheads. I’d even push the button for him! Nuke ‘em all from orbit. It’s the only way to be sure. Good idea, sparky.
I’m using every last bit of self-control I have to not take this out on my wife and kids. I have been clenching my teeth so hard that I can feel my molars being sanded smooth from friction. My jaw muscles are getting Charlie horses.
Quitting smoking is the worst fucking torture. Prisoners have actually rioted when penitentiaries were made smoke free. I’d rather be on a non-stop around the world flight while strapped into a coach seat in between an overweight insurance salesman with halitosis and a hyperactive 7 year old with an unlimited supply of sugar. I’d rather have my dentist give me a root canal with rusty gardening implements and no anesthetic. I’d rather have my father-in-law come live with me (he combines the worst qualities of Fred Flintstone, Ralph Kramden and Archie Bunker). I’d rather be forced to watch a marathon session of The Anna Nicole Show followed by every Police Academy movie ever made, including the outtakes.
God, I need a smoke.