More times than I’ve ever kissed the lips of any woman, I’ve kissed the filter of a cigarette.
Hundreds and hundreds of times I’ve flipped open the box, pressed one to my lips, grated the flint of a lighter and seen the flash of flame turn the brown tobacco orange then ashy grey.
God, I loved it so much. My favorite moment, the one I wanted always to be feeling, was after I’d taken the smoke into my mouth and brought it deep into my chest with a breath of air. The thickness of the smoke in my lungs, the feeling of fullness it gave – the moment the nicotine entered my bloodstream I was complete. And then the exhale. Sometimes quick and thoughtless, something to get through on the way somewhere, but sometimes languid, tasting it, watching the smoke curl into nothingness.
Now, part of why I loved it so much is how cool it was. Regardless of what the advertising campaigns, doctors and parents may tell you, smoking is cool. It’s a solitary, café in Rome sort of cool; it’s a famous, sexy cool; it’s an I-don’t-even-give-half-a-fuck sort of cool.
I loved it so much that since I was seventeen I traded away money, my health, my time, and my sense of smell to have it. I smoked after eating, before bed, between classes, while reading, writing and drinking when I was bored or horny or depressed or satisfied. But I was never satisfied for long. After the buzz had faded away, I had a grace period where I could focus on the present, but my thoughts always drifted back. To the box on the table. To the lighter in my pocket. To the sunshine, moonlight, heat or rain outside and to the smoke, always to the smoke.
For the first year I could just suppress it. Didn’t have any? Fine, I don’t care. Feeling lazy? Fuck it, I’m staying on the couch. But eventually, slowly, subtly, I lost my capacity to choose. I had to smoke.
When I first realized this (I think I was about 18) I rebelled against it and quit. That lasted a while, but when I saw my power over the urge I decided that I could just have one now and then, once a month maybe, then once a week, then once a day, then always.
This cycle went through its motions three or four times afterward. Whenever I quit, for a few days it felt like little men were trying to chisel their way out from inside my bones. It then turned into an itch on my brain, then dull longing, then I’d get over it, be free of it, but then always pick up the pack again and again and again.
When I went away to college, it just got worse. No friends, new side of the country, nothing of home, no family but the smoke. I made friends after time, friends like family, but the smoke stayed with me like a wife.
So it was. I quit a couple more times, once for a few months even, but I always went back; I loved it too much. I needed it too much. I tried to possess it, to tame it, to smoke enough to control it, but in the end, I realized, it didn’t need me. I was just one of the millions.
I’m not quitting because I’ve seen emphysema. I’m not quitting because I can’t stand the constant, buttery coughs. I’m not quitting so I can smell french fries and paint and sage and rain. I’m quitting because I learned that you can’t own smoke. Try and trap it in your hands; it falls through your fingers. Trap it in a jar; it turns to soot. When you’re in a relationship based on possession, it eats away at you like a cancer. It’s better to be alone.
So it’s been about two months since I quit. Two. long. hard. day-at-a-time months. I can do it. I know I can. I’m never going back.
Yeah, I admit I took a few drags off a Kool a few weekends ago, drunk at three in the morning on an apartment balcony in West University, and one from a Camel in Southtowne under similar circumstances. But that’s it. I’m done. Finito, goodbye, sayonara, fuck you Philip Morris, you can’t have me anymore. I’m free, I’m free, I’m free, thank you God, I’m free!