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I am a weak, weak person. At around 7 PM this evening, I succumbed to the call of the cancer stick. It was bed weather. Traffic along the South Luzon Expressway was moving slowly. I was listening to Concrete Blonde’s version of Ghost Riders in the Sky. I couldn’t help it. One week after I vowed to fight the good fight against Nicotine, I lost the battle. BUT NOT THE WAR!
I’m thinking maybe I did it wrong. I went cold turkey after 5 years of being a chain smoker. I never stopped smoking for more than a couple of days during the last 5 years, and now I suddenly expelled nicotine from my life. It was hard. Harder than saying “no” to free beer. Harder than not looking at a hot woman’s cleavage. Harder than closing a browser tab that contains your Plurk window. Going cold turkey wasn’t fun. It was torture. Happy torture. What?
I couldn’t ignore all the moments I felt the urge to light a stick and smoke my lungs out. I felt anti-social passing up on invitations to smoke from my co-workers. Every time I reached for a stick and found nothing there, I whispered expletives to myself. “Fuck you, self! The fuck’s your problem?!” But every time I resisted those seductive moments, I celebrated with a stupid smile. Happy torture. Weird, but there you go.
