[QUOTE=David Simmons]
It helps a lot in resolve to quit if you get bronchial pneumonia and cough up blood twice in six months.
Good luck and just remember to not smoke, even when you wake up in the middle of a dream that you are smoking.
[/QUOTE]
Great, I’ll go get infected! One time I quit because I had strep throat so bad that I needed a steroid shot to keep my throat open. I stopped smoking for 3 weeks until I was healthy again then lit up.
Sorry Hal, but I’m not lying when I say that I enjoyed smoking. I know that it is a stimulant but, damn it, it helped me relax. It was psychological, I know, but it worked. I also enjoyed the taste and smell (yup, I even liked the smell).
It has now been one week and the logical portion of my brain is telling me that the nicotine is gone, no more withdrawals. The illogical portion of my brain screams back, “Fuck you, Mr. Spock! Your logic and reasoning don’t mean shit right now! I know perfectly well that I need a cigarette and if I don’t get one I will be forced to shut you up with a home lobotomy! Now where’s my cordless drill?”
I keep telling myself that it is all in my head but I know it is really all in my hands. I feel them twitching, wanting that smooth paper cylinder packed with brown death. I can sense the heat of the coal as it gets ever closer to my knuckles. I can see the smoke curling around my fingers, trickling across my nails like fog in a cemetery.
So right now I am sitting at my desk, my legs bouncing like a pogo stick. My desk clock slowly ticks off another minute (which is a pretty good trick, considering it’s digital) to remind me, “You know, right about now you’d be going outside for a smoke break.” My coworkers come back from their breaks and I get a whiff as they pass me; that stale, noxious, poisonous, wonderful smell climbs my nostrils and tickles my olfactory nerves.
I don’t need a cigarette, I don’t need a cigarette, I don’t need a cigarette. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Maybe I’ll convince myself.