I Just Stopped For a Long Time.
“Nah, I don’t smoke anymore,” I’d say.
“Really? How come? You quit?” the stupid questions would start.
“Yeah. Well, not really. I kinda quit. I’m just not smoking for a long time,” I couldn’t admit I was no longer a smoker. Not even to non-smokers.
It’s always been my opinion that there’s nothing more annoying than an ex-smoker. Just because YOU’RE a quitter doesn’t mean we all have to be. The health warning, the moral guilt, the Think-About-Your-Future and not to forget my preferred favourite: the Think-Of-The-Money-You-Could-Be-Saving. It’s great, isn’t it?
“If you can SPELL emphysema, I’ll quit – right now.” No-one ever could. And I spent my pack a week. They spent theirs on booze.
But no-one could quite grapple with the simple fact very few smokers have the balls to admit: “We smoke because we want to die slowly”. So slowly that we can’t be accused of the self-indulgence that suicidal attempts or life apathy would expose.
It makes you feel like **** temporarily doesn’t it?
But it’s liberating to acknowledge. Yes, I’m killing myself. That’s the whole idea.
But I couldn’t handle the looks, the sighs, the shakes of the head from people I knew knew why I was doing what I was doing. So I stopped smoking. And the looks stopped. And the social pressure eased. I fit the mould again. I appeared like someone who wanted to live. How safe. How quaint.
And people will get confused and wonder why I light up occasionally; “I didn’t know you smoked?”
“I’m just not wanting to breathe as good today”.
And they understand even less, why we do what we do.