"It’s one thing to give up smoking, and another to become a former smoker. That’s what I would be the moment I left the bar, and so I lingered awhile, looking at my garish disposable lighter and the crudded-up aluminum ashtray. When I eventually got up to leave, Hugh pointed out that I had five cigarettes left in my pack.

“Are you just going to leave them there on the table?”

I answered with a line I’d got years ago from a German woman. Her name was Tini Haffmans, and though she often apologized for the state of her English, I wouldn’t have wanted it to be any better. When it came to verb conjugation, she was beyond reproach, but every so often she’d get a word wrong. The effect was not a loss of meaning but a heightening of it. I once asked if her neighbor smoked, and she thought for a moment before saying, “Karl has . . . finished with his smoking.”

She meant, of course, that he had quit, but I much preferred her mistaken version. “Finished” made it sound as if he’d been allotted a certain number of cigarettes, three hundred thousand, say, delivered at the time of his birth. If he’d started a year later or smoked more slowly, he might still be at it, but, as it stood, he had worked his way to the last one, and then moved on with his life. This, I thought, was how I would look at it. Yes, there were five more Kool Milds in that particular pack, and twenty-six cartons stashed away at home, but those were extra—an accounting error. In terms of my smoking, I had just finished with it." ♦ - David Sedaris "Letting Go", The New Yorker

I faintly remember all my first experiences and beginnings when it comes to smoking. My first taste was when I was about five years old. My father was a smoker and my cousin was a bitch bad babysitter. I had one puff and coughed for about a minute or two while she laughed cynically. This is also the same cousin who told me that ghosts were channeling their words through her when she writes. She'd hold a pen in a fist and drag it across a piece of blank paper spelling "I'm following you" in a rough manner. I was horrified.

My second encounter was during 7th grade. We were just young and curious. I had a few classmates over and we got bored. It was a one time deal, especially after one of the guys freaked out when they started discussing how smoking reduces their sperm count. Some guy in class: "Oh hellll no" yeah yeah, sure you're manly, kid. Go cuddle your penis and apologize. Ghetto was "in" during that time. Pull your pants up.

It really started during my high school years. I was about 14 years old. I hated everything and everyone. My attitude was just fuck the system, oh my life sucks and more emo shit. I was also entirely into Japanese rock, Visual Kei and punk at the time. Now that I think back about it, the way I use to dress was way too audacious. Bondage, spike and chains, ripped up shirts, crazy hairdos, fucked up shoes, leg/arm warmers, Gothic skirts and all that EGL or Japanese punk rock fashion. I've toned down a lot over the years but I still mix it up once in a while.

Anyway, one night I came upon my mother's carton of cigarettes leftover from my father. I just took it, she didn't notice until months later. My best friend at the time and I started a habit of just walking around the school campus or neighborhood having our smokes before or after class. This eventually grew to having a smoke as we wandered around the city and sat on park benches chatting.

My mother eventually confronted me in the car during my sophomore year in high school.

Mom: "You're smoking aren't you?" (I guess she could smell it on me)
Me: "Yeah" (brain: fml)
Mom: "Okay, just don't do it around your sister."
Me: "Okay..." (brain: the fuck?? why isn't she screaming at me)
Mom: "Alright, we gotta get going. Lets have a smoke." as she starts up the car and we were on our way.

She was surprisingly cool about it. She's always been open minded but I think she also realizes that we live our separate lives and always have. I grew up independent. So it was my decision. I actually think that was one of our few bonding moments. Our chats and smoke breaks in the car.



So it's been many years and the bad habit is still going.
Do I hate that I'm addicted and want to quit? Yes.
Do I regret starting it and any of the moments I've had when I did it? No.

I don't know if that makes any sense, but I don't especially regret this. I've had a lot of fond memories about it. Sure, I'm killing myself slowly. I don't need anyone to tell me that, but- Fuck off, its my life. I rather try everything and make all my mistakes now than later. Or even worst, not have experience anything at all in life because I was too worried about my mortality. Just live. Live fast. We were all born to die eventually anyway.


As I pass my 20s, I feel like the habit is getting old. My health issues is certainly complicated but it didn't stop me. Oh! and I'd save some money without my expenses spent on cigarettes, so I can waste it on some other useless shit I really don't need. Overall it's just getting boring. Just like the article I quoted (which I think is brilliantly written) I feel like I'm almost finished with it. I'm coming close to finishing my allotted amount of cigarettes I was meant to smoke in this lifetime. I came across this article some years back and it's a perfect perspective of how I feel about letting go of this habit. I'll be done before this upcoming new year.

Labels: goals, memories, resolutions, smoking