Hi, my name is Tom. And I'm a smoker. It's been 51 hours and 4 minutes since my last dri...err...cigarette. Legend has it that 72 hours is The Hump. But I have a speed bump squarely in my path: The weekly HIV Social Group - rife with smokers - Friday night - alcohol - and St. Patrick's Day. If I can make it there, I'll make it anywhere.
I also have, between here and 72 hours, 3 hours of driving. I loved to smoke while driving. 1 1/2 hours each way today. The cosmos is throwing everything it has at me. I will not be defeated. I will not be defeated. I will not be defeated. I could be defeated. I could chuck it all tonight in favor of a good time, relaxing smoke with The Boys. Nothing would smooth over the bumps of therapy like a couple of cigarettes and a soak in the hot tub. The stars are aligned against my success today. Maybe I just shouldn't count Fridays - like Lent. The Catholics get a break today, why shouldn't I? And they're accountable to GOD. Or so they say. I haven't made this deal with anyone but myself. If I cheat, it's not like I can heave a lightning bolt in my own direction.
And I could always lie on here and say that I hadn't slipped up when I did. That would change the documentary nature of this, of course. But for one well-timed drag on a smooth Marlboro Ultra-Light or an elegant Benson & Hedges Deluxe Ultra-Light (in the handsome Gold box - more an accessory than an addiction, really)...who knows what principles I might compromise. On the other hand, maybe next week would be a better time to cheat. Really solidify my sobriety base first and then tempt fate from a stronger, more entrenched quitting mindset. I'll have really quit in another week. Then I can smoke more casually. That's the ticket! I'll make sure I've really, really quit before I smoke again. If only more people knew these secrets.
I'll make myself 1,000 promises and tell myself 100 lies between now and the next cigarette - whether it's tonight or tomorrow or next year or never. I suppose that's what wanting does to you. When you want it deep enough and hard enough, you can make sense out of any circumstance that stands between you and the object of your desire, I suppose. I can almost hear it...nicotine...serenading me from the gas station on the corner:
No wind, (no wind) no rain, (no rain)
Nor winter’s cold
Can stop me, babe (oh, babe) baby (baby)
If you’re my goal
The siren song that woos me from 2 blocks down became a scene-chewing torch song last night around 9 p.m., so I took pills. They were my regular pills, but it made the tobacco's song a little less convincing as it raged:
And I am telling you
I'm not going.
You're the best man I'll ever know.
There's no way I can ever go,
No, no, no, no way,
No, no, no, no way I'm livin' without you.
I'm not livin' without you.
I don't want to be free.
I'm stayin',
I'm stayin',
And you, and you, you're gonna love me.
Ooh, you're gonna love me.
The gentle Diana Ross wisp of smoke morphs into a raging Jennifer Holliday addiction when the sun goes down. It's been a war of wills for over 50 hours. The American Cancer Society contends that as of 7 a.m. this morning, my sense of smell and taste have improved. I will enjoy my food more, they say. My risk of heart attack has begun to decrease. Honey, I ain't even gonna try to pull your leg on this one...that don't hold a candle to Ms. Holliday.
It's going to be a long, long, night.
I also have, between here and 72 hours, 3 hours of driving. I loved to smoke while driving. 1 1/2 hours each way today. The cosmos is throwing everything it has at me. I will not be defeated. I will not be defeated. I will not be defeated. I could be defeated. I could chuck it all tonight in favor of a good time, relaxing smoke with The Boys. Nothing would smooth over the bumps of therapy like a couple of cigarettes and a soak in the hot tub. The stars are aligned against my success today. Maybe I just shouldn't count Fridays - like Lent. The Catholics get a break today, why shouldn't I? And they're accountable to GOD. Or so they say. I haven't made this deal with anyone but myself. If I cheat, it's not like I can heave a lightning bolt in my own direction.
And I could always lie on here and say that I hadn't slipped up when I did. That would change the documentary nature of this, of course. But for one well-timed drag on a smooth Marlboro Ultra-Light or an elegant Benson & Hedges Deluxe Ultra-Light (in the handsome Gold box - more an accessory than an addiction, really)...who knows what principles I might compromise. On the other hand, maybe next week would be a better time to cheat. Really solidify my sobriety base first and then tempt fate from a stronger, more entrenched quitting mindset. I'll have really quit in another week. Then I can smoke more casually. That's the ticket! I'll make sure I've really, really quit before I smoke again. If only more people knew these secrets.
I'll make myself 1,000 promises and tell myself 100 lies between now and the next cigarette - whether it's tonight or tomorrow or next year or never. I suppose that's what wanting does to you. When you want it deep enough and hard enough, you can make sense out of any circumstance that stands between you and the object of your desire, I suppose. I can almost hear it...nicotine...serenading me from the gas station on the corner:
No wind, (no wind) no rain, (no rain)
Nor winter’s cold
Can stop me, babe (oh, babe) baby (baby)
If you’re my goal
The siren song that woos me from 2 blocks down became a scene-chewing torch song last night around 9 p.m., so I took pills. They were my regular pills, but it made the tobacco's song a little less convincing as it raged:
And I am telling you
I'm not going.
You're the best man I'll ever know.
There's no way I can ever go,
No, no, no, no way,
No, no, no, no way I'm livin' without you.
I'm not livin' without you.
I don't want to be free.
I'm stayin',
I'm stayin',
And you, and you, you're gonna love me.
Ooh, you're gonna love me.
The gentle Diana Ross wisp of smoke morphs into a raging Jennifer Holliday addiction when the sun goes down. It's been a war of wills for over 50 hours. The American Cancer Society contends that as of 7 a.m. this morning, my sense of smell and taste have improved. I will enjoy my food more, they say. My risk of heart attack has begun to decrease. Honey, I ain't even gonna try to pull your leg on this one...that don't hold a candle to Ms. Holliday.
It's going to be a long, long, night.
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