I’ve been smoking cigarettes on and off since I was about 16.
I love it.
I fucking love everything about it.
I love how it makes being alone seem like you’re not.
I love how it always gives you something to do.
I love how it’s the most amazing social icebreaker ever invented.
I am the end product of years and years of incredibly evil men in white coats putting nicotine smeared electrodes in the pleasure center of the brains of monkeys.
When I smoke, I’ll go through a pack a day minimum.
And every single one of them will be the best one I’ve ever had.
I stopped smoking a bunch of times.
Sometimes for months. Even years.
But I’d always come running back. I’d always eventually let myself have that one delicious first drag, the one that tastes especially amazing because you still have a mouth full of functional taste buds.
And once I did that, it was always just a matter of time and ignorance before I was back on them.
But I always said that no matter what happened, I’d give up when I turned 30.
It might have been some kind of way of legitimising my stupidity, but it was always in my head.
So, when I turned 30, I gave up.
I will never consciously let myself have another drag of tobacco smoke.
And that’s that.
