The Rough Drafts Writing Blog

I quit smoking 153 days ago. Yes, I’m still counting it out by single days. No, I didn’t just calculate that number; I’ve been tracking it every day. It would be kind of poseurish to do that just for this piece, wouldn’t it? In any event, I’m still miserable. Absolutely, 100%, bay at the goddamn moon miserable. I hate it. So I maintain that I should be allowed to smoke. The isn’t even the tip of the iceberg when it comes to my Irrational Needs Wishlist, but it’s top of mind at the moment so we’ll start here.

Now, technically, I’m allowed to smoke cigarettes presently. I’m over the age of eighteen. I’m not an inmate in a correctional facility. I don’t live in an airless vacuum. Despite these qualifying factors, there are things keeping me from doing so. These things must be eliminated.

The Rules

Criteria #1: Must be able to tell my children not to smoke without destroying my own credibility.

I’ve got a few ideas here. The first, and most simple, option is brainwashing. No, no, I know what you’re going to say: you shouldn’t brainwash your kids. I maintain that it’s perfectly acceptable in this situation because my intentions are noble. I just want the kids to never smoke. It’s not like I want them to become child stars or birth cellar-babies to sacrifice to Satan or anything. Lighten the fuck up; my heart’s in the right place and absolutely no one will be moving to Jonestown.

Plenty of people brainwash their children into believing in Jesus or the [frankly more credible] Easter Bunny. It’s not like I’m telling them stories about the invisible man in the sky who wants you to hate people because they consider cows sacred. It’s that I want them to live long lives. Perhaps they’ll find reasons to want to that I never could. I hope so.

My heart’s in the right place.

Ok, I can see that it’s going to be difficult to sell that one.

How about hiding and lying? Before you immediately discard this one, consider that it’s a strategy that has worked for countless people over time from Pilate to Liberace to Clay Aiken; nobody saw through any of those people’s lies. I’ll be fine.

So I’ll smoke for the remainder of my life, perhaps as many as twenty whole years, and just refuse to admit that I’m a smoker. I’ll pretend that I work in an opium den to explain away the smoke smell. Fuck, that’s bad. OK, ok. I work in a casino. We’ll still have casinos in twenty years, right? The ban on fun isn’t allowed to take effect until I die.

My heart’s in the right place.

Still not perfect.

Let’s come back to this one.

Criteria #2: Must be able to maintain reasonable level of health

My definition of “reasonable level of health” doesn’t include living past 60. So, for my own sake anyway, cancer risk isn’t necessarily a big deal. I feel like people shouldn’t really live past the point at which they can no longer fuck without assistance. Or, I should say, the point at which anyone should want to fuck without assistance. I mean really, at eighty, with giant saggy balls that swing to your ankles … the only thing you should want to do is buy a shovel and start digging. Sex should be the last thing on your mind. Really. Pack in it, you’ve already seen every single episode of the Golden Girls.

No, I’m looking to make it through a winter without bronchitis. This is really my definition. I wouldn’t mind death so much, but feeling like you’re going to die just blows. I’m not interested in that. I’ve had bronchitis between four and eight times each winter for the last ten years; it’s gotten kind of old. I’ve enjoyed not being sick so far this winter. I want to keep that.

The persistent cough will also have to continue to stay hidden. I’ve enjoyed not having that. Perhaps someone can invent smokeless smoking. Don’t even suggest any form of chewing/oral tobacco. This is not what I mean. Dip, snuff, chaw, etc. are to be used only by people that have sex with their sisters. It’s in the Constitution. Look it up if you don’t believe me; article II, section III, passages orange through purple calico.

Criteria #3: Must maintain present tobacco budget

My present tobacco budget is approximately zero dollars per week. I’m going to have to stay at just about the same place. It’s not that I don’t have the money; it’s that it seems silly to spend it on cigarettes when there are perfectly good opportunities to buy lap dances from midgets with prosthetic legs that I’d have to pass up on.

Should I leave them out in the cold?

In this economy?

Clearly, I can’t. That’s just fucking heartless, B. How could I possibly live with myself?

So, if I have to keep it up with the midget whores, and we’ve demonstrated that I do, what else could I cancel out? Eating? What am I, a meth addict? That’s never going to work. The longest that I’ve ever gone without eating was four weeks, and that was only because I’d just seen Kathy Bates naked in About Schmidt. Fucking movie. And let’s face it, it made me really hard to deal with. Wasn’t fair to anyone.

So yeah, I’m going to have to steal them or accept a Big Tobacco sponsor on my blog. So Phillip Morris, you’re giving them to me for free anyway – shouldn’t we throw up a banner?

Choices

I’ve laid out a few of the ways that I could go with this, but I think that the path I should take is pretty clear at this point.

First, I have to figure out a way to cure cancer. This will ensure that my kids will be ok, even if I do destroy my credibility and they follow my shamefully bad example. I’m going to start work on this tomorrow. Sean Connery has led me to believe that it has something to do with fire ants. I’ll start there.

Secondly, I need to fit myself with hot-swappable lungs. Perhaps I’ll invent the first artificial lungs that plug into a USB.

Thirdly, for the sake of the crippled midget meth addicts, I’ll be stealing all my smokes from now on. Sorry Big Tobacco, it’s time to think about the [really] little guy.

That was uncalled for.

Conclusions

Ultimately, I’m not a scientist and even if I were … I’d be a really bad one because I’m lazy. So these things won’t work. I guess I’ll just have to agree to quit not quitting and admit that maybe there’s something in me worth saving yet.

I’m probably wrong, but what does a bit more misery hurt?