Damn. That's a big number.
Seems so much closer to Three-Hundred and Sixty-Five than not.
It has been many days since I have written on this page, which I consider in many ways to be a good thing. I have persevered in my journey toward a nicotine/tobacco-free life. Not a pack; not an 'Oh, that was a rough day' pity cig; an occasional puff here and there from friends who know I am never turning back. They see my face as it scrunches with distaste.
Why would I ever willfully choose to inhale and ingest that particularly distasteful substance?
It is awful and makes me choke. And reminds me why I quit smoking to begin with. I get those urges that convince me that I will love it if I take a drag off a friend's Camel, and it is always a disappointing event: pleasantly disappointing.
I thought I didn't need this silly little blog anymore...
...but I'm in a bit of a crisis mode....
It's not a real crisis, of course, and, frankly, it's not even my crisis at all. I have noticed a few of my favorite quitters moving away from their abstinence; allowing the beast to enter again. The door was left cracked and it slithered quietly in, whispering sweet excuses and twisting tempting tales of short affairs; talking of 'one night stands' and then moving all her belonging in the next day. These are people who inspired me with their adventures in quitting, and to see them moving away makes me consider, for a moment, that maybe I should just take a little break...
...and then I remember I hate cigarettes.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Day One-Hundred and Forty-Five
About a year ago, I walked to my car after a presumable Bocce victory in Wyman Park, cigarette in mouth. This occurred every Thursday evening. My team - The Big LeBocce - would play (and soundly defeat) our opponent, then stand around for a while to share the cigarettes of whoever happened to be holding a pack that evening and finish our Bohs. We would critique terrible throws, chuckle at the deficiency of our opponent, and watch the pack of random dogs run around the park, biting ankles and occasionally misunderstanding the other's intentions.
My teammate (and illustrious chef) kept me honest. Parked one car closer to the approaching image looked back at me, refusing my forced ignorance.
'Guys. Guys. Please help me. Please'.
Where was this voice coming from; this sound rich with humility, and pain, and desperation? It couldn't have come from that young man a block away. But now, directly in front of me, his superficiality washed clean from his skin and collecting along the curb, he was nothing but a helpless man. Helplessness not from without, but forced upon him by the passenger within the wheelchair he was attempting to pull up two small flights of steps leading to his row-home.
He didn't want to reach out to us: particularly to me. He peers into my eyes and looked into my intentionality. He knew me, and would have rather told me to 'Fuck off'. Even as my teammate and I grabbed an armrest and helped this man carry his helpless father up the ten steps, he could smell my disgust - overwhelming the retch of his father's foully soiled pants - and taste my reluctance - rather than the sweat dripping down his face.
He looked at my teammate. "Thanks guys. I got it from here'. I assume the 's' was for me. He had seen all he needed from me.
I drove home holding the steering wheel with a napkin.
****
Embarrassingly and shamefully, I recount this memory. Is this the function of our memory: to be able to correct our past actions through experience in the future? When I find myself in this same situation in the future, will I be able to shake off my reluctance and disgust of the past; acting in a solely self-less manner? Do I believe in the story of Lazarus rising from the dead?
What does this have to do with cigarettes? I have no idea...
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Day One-Hundred Thirty-Four
Man. I don't even remember what it is to write a blog anymore. I have no idea what happened.
What was this thing all about anyway? I'm confused...
Was there a time when I smoked cigarettes?
I keep on having these sleeps where I wake up and look for something and want to do something, but can't remember at all what exactly it is, until I do. I'm looking for my cigarettes.
And I must be out then, so I'll stop by the store on my way to work and grab a pack; but how much were they again? $6.03? Eh, just break a 10 this time and save the change for later. Maybe ask for smaller coins...
Where is this Real, anymore? What makes me a smoker?
Am I still a smoker? Is one's extent of smokerness reliant upon the quantity of smokes inhaled; total amount of smokes smoked in one's life? So, once you pass the one-thousand cigarette threshold, you're in the club? Alright, then I smoked for nine years; first couple years were maybe three per week. And then three years at least one pack per day, and then a few more at about four packs per week - can't forget the two packs of Camel Filters devoured per day freshmen year of college (ugh). That brings us to a rough estimate of 33,672 - thirty-three thousand, six-hundred and seventy-two. Is it possible I did the math wrong here? I did use a calculator...
Now I have myself thinking about the possible things I have done thirty-three thousand times in my lifetime: breathe, maybe eat things (definitely chew stuff), hopefully kissed my beautiful wife. Hm. This is tricky. But I did make the smokers team.
And I still keep thinking like a smoker. And my mind keeps on tricking me into thinking I am a smoker. I even contemplated borrowing one of Ryan's helpless, unassuming cigarettes in the server station on Sunday evening for no apparent reason. I wasn't particularly interested in smoking one. They just looked really nice in their perfect, self-contained box; I wanted to see what I already knew was inside. Silly me.
And still, the mystery remains: Am I still a smoker? What is a smoker?
What was this thing all about anyway? I'm confused...
Was there a time when I smoked cigarettes?
I keep on having these sleeps where I wake up and look for something and want to do something, but can't remember at all what exactly it is, until I do. I'm looking for my cigarettes.
And I must be out then, so I'll stop by the store on my way to work and grab a pack; but how much were they again? $6.03? Eh, just break a 10 this time and save the change for later. Maybe ask for smaller coins...
Where is this Real, anymore? What makes me a smoker?
Am I still a smoker? Is one's extent of smokerness reliant upon the quantity of smokes inhaled; total amount of smokes smoked in one's life? So, once you pass the one-thousand cigarette threshold, you're in the club? Alright, then I smoked for nine years; first couple years were maybe three per week. And then three years at least one pack per day, and then a few more at about four packs per week - can't forget the two packs of Camel Filters devoured per day freshmen year of college (ugh). That brings us to a rough estimate of 33,672 - thirty-three thousand, six-hundred and seventy-two. Is it possible I did the math wrong here? I did use a calculator...
Now I have myself thinking about the possible things I have done thirty-three thousand times in my lifetime: breathe, maybe eat things (definitely chew stuff), hopefully kissed my beautiful wife. Hm. This is tricky. But I did make the smokers team.
And I still keep thinking like a smoker. And my mind keeps on tricking me into thinking I am a smoker. I even contemplated borrowing one of Ryan's helpless, unassuming cigarettes in the server station on Sunday evening for no apparent reason. I wasn't particularly interested in smoking one. They just looked really nice in their perfect, self-contained box; I wanted to see what I already knew was inside. Silly me.
And still, the mystery remains: Am I still a smoker? What is a smoker?
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Day One-Hundred Twenty-Four
Hello all. Here is what I have been up to recently. One more week, and I'll be back! No cigs...
http://jclabella2010.edu.glogster.com/low-incidence-syndromes/
http://jclabella2010.edu.glogster.com/low-incidence-syndromes/
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Day One-Hundred Fourteen
It's remarkable.
Maybe it wasn't just an excuse.
Perhaps there is some ontological connection between school work and cigarettes; like Jesuits and Scotch; hippies and patchouli; tacos and cheese. Could it be that all this time, as I fought with myself and my wife, that should have been smoking cigarettes all along?
If not, then why am I having so much difficulty getting myself through the obviously enjoyable read, Exceptional Learners: Introduction to Special Education? I figured I would fly through that shit like I did Lemon by Lawrence Krauser and, before that, The Convalescent, by Jessica Anthony - both published by McSweeneys.
Maybe I sensed the end of my literary freedom with my looming return to academic life (once again). One of my prerequisites the BCTR is enrollment and completion of an introduction to special education course; and my course through the University of Phoenix has begun.
Mind you, it is only one class, and it will be done in three weeks, and the working isn't unbearable - even though it is quite substantial - but, once again, I am under the thumb of an instructor who tells me what to read, how much, and by when. Fuck, I hate textbooks. There has to be a better way to relay this information to me.
But then again, I did have to read H.D. (Hilda Doolittle) in grad. school...
Uncommon denominator: cigarettes.
So just as a decide, 'Today is the day. I have to get my groove back; and then go to Safeway!', I sit down at my computer, put iTunes on random, and get this:
...like an injection, directly in my veins. I feel all my anxiety melt into the hard wooden chair on which I rest, the chair now transformed into a plush leisure chair, and I breathe in, and I breathe out, and it is gone. So simple. I almost forgot. I can read just fine, thank you.
And now, I feel like doing this:
which I will be doing out the door...especially the Camel walk, motherfucker! Just to spite my former frienemy...
Maybe it wasn't just an excuse.
Perhaps there is some ontological connection between school work and cigarettes; like Jesuits and Scotch; hippies and patchouli; tacos and cheese. Could it be that all this time, as I fought with myself and my wife, that should have been smoking cigarettes all along?
If not, then why am I having so much difficulty getting myself through the obviously enjoyable read, Exceptional Learners: Introduction to Special Education? I figured I would fly through that shit like I did Lemon by Lawrence Krauser and, before that, The Convalescent, by Jessica Anthony - both published by McSweeneys.
Maybe I sensed the end of my literary freedom with my looming return to academic life (once again). One of my prerequisites the BCTR is enrollment and completion of an introduction to special education course; and my course through the University of Phoenix has begun.
Mind you, it is only one class, and it will be done in three weeks, and the working isn't unbearable - even though it is quite substantial - but, once again, I am under the thumb of an instructor who tells me what to read, how much, and by when. Fuck, I hate textbooks. There has to be a better way to relay this information to me.
But then again, I did have to read H.D. (Hilda Doolittle) in grad. school...
Uncommon denominator: cigarettes.
So just as a decide, 'Today is the day. I have to get my groove back; and then go to Safeway!', I sit down at my computer, put iTunes on random, and get this:
...like an injection, directly in my veins. I feel all my anxiety melt into the hard wooden chair on which I rest, the chair now transformed into a plush leisure chair, and I breathe in, and I breathe out, and it is gone. So simple. I almost forgot. I can read just fine, thank you.
And now, I feel like doing this:
which I will be doing out the door...especially the Camel walk, motherfucker! Just to spite my former frienemy...
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Day One-Hundred and Six
Is this it? Have I finally reached the promised land?
I spent my One-Hundredth day of nicotine abstinence gallivanting about San Francisco with the wife. On this particular day, I recall devouring the most delicious Chinese food to ever touch my lips at House of Nanking. Heaven on a plate.
Even in my worst smoking days, vacationing with the wife was always the best cigarette deterrent. In fact, I hardly ever craved a smoke when in her angelic presence, and this particular vacation was no exception.
We walked across the Golden Gate Bridge, which was interesting. Looking at this historic landmark in person felt overwhelming, and the prospect of traversing it on foot exhilarating. And yet, as we reached the other side, there was a noted absence of stickers, t-shirts, and balloons; no one was cheering; there was no party waiting for its two guests of honor to finally arrive.
And here I am, fifteen-weeks smoke-free, waiting for my victory party. I have certainly conquered my cigarette addiction, but where are the bells and whistles? Why is the first thought that pops in my head on my way out the door for a game of chess, or to run a few errands, 'First stop: Royal Farms'? What does this mean?
I spent my One-Hundredth day of nicotine abstinence gallivanting about San Francisco with the wife. On this particular day, I recall devouring the most delicious Chinese food to ever touch my lips at House of Nanking. Heaven on a plate.
Even in my worst smoking days, vacationing with the wife was always the best cigarette deterrent. In fact, I hardly ever craved a smoke when in her angelic presence, and this particular vacation was no exception.
We walked across the Golden Gate Bridge, which was interesting. Looking at this historic landmark in person felt overwhelming, and the prospect of traversing it on foot exhilarating. And yet, as we reached the other side, there was a noted absence of stickers, t-shirts, and balloons; no one was cheering; there was no party waiting for its two guests of honor to finally arrive.
And here I am, fifteen-weeks smoke-free, waiting for my victory party. I have certainly conquered my cigarette addiction, but where are the bells and whistles? Why is the first thought that pops in my head on my way out the door for a game of chess, or to run a few errands, 'First stop: Royal Farms'? What does this mean?
Friday, March 11, 2011
Day Ninety-Four
I've spent these past Ninety-three days documenting my struggle to quit smoking. It has been successful, and something of which I am quite proud on multiple levels.
Yet, on a day like today, as I turn on the news and watch this,
my entire task begins to shrink and shrivel into a crumbly nothingness; like setting a flame to the thin plastic wrapping of a pack of smokes. I hesitate to refer to it as a 'journey' - as I have so many times before - because it hardly seems worthy of a word of such power and supposed import. 'A journey' sounds much grander and relevant than quitting smoking is. This is no 'journey to Middle Earth'; this is cutting out a useless addiction and addition to my life.
This terrifying and utterly sublime event forces us to turn inward and consider that which we may in fact control in our lives; because the contents of this video are complete and unstoppable. It is our choice to raise up arms and destroy our fellow brothers and sisters, and it is our own will to fire up a Camel Light which will ruin our lungs and end our eistence, but the thousands of lives which have been destroyed by the natural events in Japan autochthonous: they are self-arising, naturally occuring, inevitable.
All I can think right now is: how hard is it really to quit? How much import can I really place in this quite meaningful and superfluous act?
Yet, on a day like today, as I turn on the news and watch this,
my entire task begins to shrink and shrivel into a crumbly nothingness; like setting a flame to the thin plastic wrapping of a pack of smokes. I hesitate to refer to it as a 'journey' - as I have so many times before - because it hardly seems worthy of a word of such power and supposed import. 'A journey' sounds much grander and relevant than quitting smoking is. This is no 'journey to Middle Earth'; this is cutting out a useless addiction and addition to my life.
This terrifying and utterly sublime event forces us to turn inward and consider that which we may in fact control in our lives; because the contents of this video are complete and unstoppable. It is our choice to raise up arms and destroy our fellow brothers and sisters, and it is our own will to fire up a Camel Light which will ruin our lungs and end our eistence, but the thousands of lives which have been destroyed by the natural events in Japan autochthonous: they are self-arising, naturally occuring, inevitable.
All I can think right now is: how hard is it really to quit? How much import can I really place in this quite meaningful and superfluous act?
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Day Ninety-One
I have finally reached the adolescence of my cigarette quitting. Thirteen weeks. I have noticed some abnormal changes in my body recently...
Abnormal insofar as I have finally stabilized my appetite. For the first many weeks, I could not stop eating, no matter what I ate or how much of it. The wife and I would fill up on sushi, Tom yung goong, and seaweed salad, and yet still find myself cataloguing every edible entity in our house on our short walk home. I helplessly watched my stomach slowly reach over my belt buckle toward my zipper like an eager Calvert Street-walker...Of course, whenever I would think, 'I wish I could just stop being hungry', we all know by now my mind's response...
But, lo and behold, my body seems to have finally readjusted to my lack of nicotine intake. I can finally eat an appropriate amount of food on a reasonable schedule - normally - and my belly has begun to rescind. I'm happy it was unnecessary to increase my general activity level or, even worse, begin an exercise regiment.
Oh yeah, I forgot to mention, I bought a pack of cigs a few days ago. Not for myself, of course, but for a certain friend of mine who smokes those nasty Camel Crushes. I haven't stepped foot inside a Royal Farms for quite a while now, yet the whole exchange remains oddly familiar. Same middle aged, mildly chubby woman - I think I even threw her for a loop when I said 'Crush'. I'm pretty sure she remembered me. Is that sad? Is it sad I remember her? I think her name is Alicia.
Two things. 1: Crushes got expensive, which means cig prices have certainly gone up, once again. Suckers! 2: My boy smokes a lot of cigs. As a smoker, I used to keep up with him fairly well, but now, peering in from my non-smoking spectacles, it seems a little crazy. Like, a cig every commercial break during Top Chef, and then one after every game of Fifa, playing only four minute halves. I'm not judging my poor smoking friend; I just can't believe how much I used to smoke. It never seemed like too much when I was still smoking...
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Day Eighty-Six
I know this is inappropriate...
So I was watching this commercial. It interrupted my favorite three-o'clock television show - on ABC - and it got me thinking: Man. It must be quite awful to have to take a pill to prevent from 'springing an embarrassing leak', but then 'become constipated for three or more days'. What a terribly ironic product...
It got me thinking about my own plumbing; and then standing outside on a cool morning, drinking my second cup of coffee - first is consumed with my morning bagel; and how smokers know that there is some bizarre reaction that takes place between nicotine and a warm cup of coffee that gets things moving. It is quite remarkable, in fact. Like clockwork. You get about three-quarters down your Camel Light, and you feel a gentle kick, and you know...
Its weird writing about poop. I seemed to work much better in my head...
And, if that all wasn't enough, while considering and writing about my bowels, this lovely voiced woman had the solution after all! Hmm...
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