Lord Genocyde Calls It Quits

You know, I thought these damn things had more gum in 'em
Nope, that's not a cigarette in my hand. Truth be told, I don't want another damn cigarette in my mouth as long as I live, however damn long that is.

I came to the realization last Friday at work at about sometime past midnight. I sat at my desk, cracked the box open, fished one out, popped open the zippo and lit that bastard. I expected to inhale sweet-tasting smoke. That cigarette looked as though it were made by God, rolled by Jesus and sealed shut by Jenna Jameson's vagina. Gosh, it looked tasty.

It wasn't though. It was foul. That's when the thoughts flooded me.

Hey, D...how many times have you been to the docs for those upper respiratory infections/bronchitis cases?

At least once per year

Hey, you know, that reminds me, what's your blood pressure been like lately?

Fuckin Stage One Hypertension...

Well, how are you feeling now?

Like shit, if you must know

Still coughin up shit and having sinus trouble? Huh?

Yeah! Goddammit, are you fuckin with me?

That's when it happened. Silence. Finally. For so long, I have kept that damned nagging thought in the back of my mind that it's not good for me but the truth is, I thought I liked it.

"Fuckin shit," I said, snuffing it, "Still an addict. If it ain't the booze it's this shit."

I remember the first time I quit. I didn't last a full 24 hours. I relapsed and I was an irritable fucker. That was ten years ago. I made another attempt about three or four years ago. That time, I lasted a week before the habit snagged me. I would try again and again and joke that I had quit about a couple hours ago and then I'd light up another one adding, "Hey, God hates a quitter."

Friday night, I sat there, feeling like a total moron. I started writing on the notepad. I still had most of a carton left...including the damn pack that I'd carried with me to work. Before I knew it, I noticed that the voice in my head had spilled itself onto paper and was staring me in the eyes.

"Finish 'em off and quit," the paper said, "Start getting your ass to the gym and lose a few pounds. Time to quit acting like a teenager. Your system's still good but it needs some cleaning and tuning. Make a plan and stick to it this time, fucker!"

So, the weekend passed and I planned in that time. Monday, things began to be thrown into motion. I joined the local gym, I started looking up information on cessation from smoking, I started looking into patches for the nicotine withdrawl. I'd need them for sure. I wanted something to help me with the habit and I found it Tuesday during in-service training...suckers!

No, I'm not calling you one, dear reader. I mean those things like what's in that pic up there. I both dreaded and feared the weekend. Friday, I still had a pack to finish off and I was at WalMart doing my usual thing. I checked my pressure at the machine. Still stage one hypertension. Dammit.

I grabbed the patches. I knew I'd need them if I had a hope in hell of quitting. Still, another problem plagued me...I'd forgotten the suckers during my shopping expedition.

I finished the pack at approximately midnight Saturday Morning. I went to the gym at 4 am. I showered and left at 6am. I grabbed suckers and assorted hard candy on the way back home. God Bless the man who invented the convenience store! For all that candy I bought, I still didn't spend near as much as I would on a carton of cigarettes. I slapped the patch on as soon as I got myself settled in. It's been almost 12 hours and I'm not irritable, sideways or on edge. I've been a total asshole to some deserving morons on various messageboards. I can use my cessation as an excuse, I suppose.

In any case, the smoker you knew is dead and gone. Does this mean I'm going to side with that numbshit legislation on smokers further restricting your space? HELL No! Smoke away, people. Just because I've chosen not to doesn't mean you have to.

If it's any consolation, I feel much better.