I Am a Smoker
I started smoking when I was twelve. I didn't do it to look cool or to impress anyone. I did it because I was mad at my mom. It's as dumb a reason as any out there. The first drag tasted good. I wasn't really hooked until I was fourteen, and ten years later I'm still smoking. Some days I love it, somedays I hate it. Cigarettes seem to help me concentrate. They calm me down when I'm emotional. They complete any meal. Yet, when I wake up some mornings my chest aches for oxygen. It's on those days that I tell myself I'm quitting. Then something happens and I want one more than I want my next breath.
I enjoy smoking though. It feels good to take that first drag off a fresh cigarette. It feels good to hold and chat, occassionally taking a puff. It's nice to be able to relax with a good book and my cigarettes and lighter on the table next to my comfy chair.
I do plan on quitting. Especially since I'm planning to have a child within the next year and a half. I won't subject my child to the harmful effects of smoking. So I image over the summer I will finally use the patch and get more active to take my mind off of the cravings.
