Day Twenty-Four

I must first apologize for my two day hiatus. I decided to use my persistent illness as an excuse to take the short blogging hiatus which I promised over the Christmas holiday and, of which my friend Jess has gleefully reminded me, I neglected to fulfill. Hopefully, you were not glued to the computer, neurotically refreshing the screen, waiting for a new, brilliant post to appear...

This past week of indisposition has left me contemplating the identity of this blog in my post-smoker life. It's initial conception, of course, was to operate as both a crutch and incentive through monetary loss and public humiliation. In that regard, it has been a success, and I extend my gratitude to all of you who have supported me with your gracious and patient eyes. My success is your love.

As the cravings and urges have subsided, I feel it safe to finally turn my gaze outward from my self. I have been wondering why I would have been drawn to this self-destructive act of smoking cigarettes. Obviously, there is the 'cool' factor and the 'fuck the world' ideology, but I am not the world. I chose to smoke as an act of rebellion in some sort of way, but why should this rebellion revolve around the destruction of my one and only body?

I have always felt uncomfortable in my body, and I am not sure if I will ever transcend that unfortunate fact, but I have finally come to terms with the fact that my body is inextricably connected with myself; that it is me. If my body is poisoned, then I am poisoned. If my body is starved, then I am starved. Of course, the second part of these statements may be and certainly should be considered in both its literal and figurative manners. What I do to my body I am doing to my SELF. I am my body.

I would like to take this final paragraph to reflect on a certain friend who has been on my mind the past week or so. This being not only the end of the month but the end of the year, I encourage you to try to escape the trap of time in which you have confined yourself now for years. Having shed myself of this smoking burden, I feel incredibly and bizarrely free. I am no longer defined by that act and I wish you the same. I am, finally, just me. You are beautiful, and it is time for your REAL self to burst through its shackles and shine fully. I know you can do it!

Day Twenty-One

I think the header of this post says enough. Three weeks without even a puff of cigarette smoke is awesome. I wish I had more to say, but sickness has rendered my mind as stagnant as my smoking habit. I will instead retire to an evening of knitting while I contemplate the importance of this temporal milestone.

Oh yeah, GO EAGLES!!!

-

Day Twenty

Twenty days. Sweet! I am starting to feel less like a smoker trying to quit and more like a non-smoker; a fairly bizarre and unusual new reality I am learning to accept. My wife pointed out to me recently that I was approaching my TENTH year as a smoker. That is a lot of years for one who hasn't exactly yet grown old. In fact, my trusty TI-83 informs me that I have currently been a smoker for 36% of my life. Are you fucking kidding me? I haven't even been having sex or known of the existence of Frank Zappa for as long as I have been a smoker, and it is time for some of my favorite activities of life to finally catch up.

On a side note, I have felt sick today (there is my 'Facebook update' for the day). That is an unfortunate fact of my daily life. I have, fortunately, averted plunging myself deeper into ill-health and rumbling, mucusy chesty coughs with the absence of my normally occasional retreat outdoors for a smoke. Admittedly, my cigarette intake was considerably diminished on days of sickness, but these few moments of utter retardation always took their toll; and I willingly accepted them, like an idiot. I always hoped I wouldn't cough with the first puff and prayed the terrible smell of snot and smoke would somehow coalesce to become a Mother's Day fragrance.

Today, I need none of that. It is weird to finally - in at least a respiratory manner - be thinking about my health. What a fucking concept!

Day Nineteen

Last night, I had a dream I bought a pack of Marlboro Lights for $8.32, for which I paid exact change. I certainly have moved past my addiction to cigarettes; Marlboros suck, and if I would smoke a Marlboro, it would certainly be a Red. They at least have taste. This was clearly a last ditch effort for my smoker alter-ego to infiltrate my defenses. If I made it through stuffing my face and stomach over these past two days with great success (and with little anger and crankiness), I don't think I will ever turn back!

Day Seventeen

The wife and I have decided to turn the computer off for the rest of the Christmas weekend, so this will be my last post until Sunday evening or Monday morning. I have absolutely no doubts in my mind that I will be able to make it through this weekend with great non-smoking success. I feel I have made some terrific steps these past few days; I could probably use a break.

One things I have been thinking about: will I always want to smoke cigs while watching Californication or Mad Men. This was certainly a terrible time to start watching these two shows: one where the main characters is a smoker and is super cool and happens to be David Duchovny; the other where EVERYONE smokes, constantly! Normally, in film and on the television, smokers tend to be villainous and evil. These shows, which I happen to love very much for two very different reasons, have been trying to unsettle my newfound distaste for the cigs. Good luck!

Day Sixteen

Alright, so I got a little confused with my days and forgot to post on Tuesday, so don't be confused yourself. There is no blog for Day Fifteen. Sorry. No five bucks, though!

Driving with the wife to Hampden to buy Christmas gifts for my family, I got to thinking about my father, and I hope he doesn't mind if I write about him a bit. I'm going to, regardless. He is important in my life, and he has the same problem I have been attempting to conquer the past sixteen days now: nicotine/tobacco addiction. He has been a smoker my entire life and quite possibly may be responsible for permitting the concept of cigarettes as being acceptable - and perhaps even cool - in my psyche. The wife, without the exposure to cigarettes through either of her parents, has always conceived of cigs as evil and disgusting.

I don't blame him, however. I love smoking. Or, perhaps I should say I love it, in a way; to a degree. I love the community of it, especially in these, the anti-smoking years; the years of the death of cigarettes, of big tobacco and its immense money and influence. Being a smoker, you can almost connect with anyone; all of us willingly killing ourselves with a conscious communal ignorance. The camaraderie is comforting. Wonderful. And all the time spent outdoors, because most of us have accepted the fact that cigarettes belong outside. Smoking is always a great excuse to go for a short walk down the block or work outside on my fence, or just relax on the deck and ponder my garden; and none of us can argue that outside, in general, is pretty nice. I happen to enjoy it a lot.

But, when I talked to him about my blog, he said, 'Well, I'm sure quitting is not too hard, if you want to, that is' (or something to that affect). I haven't been able to stop thinking about it since. Quitting smoking has been quite an emotional time for me, recently. Thinking about the extent to which I have lied to myself and my wife, and family, and friends has strongly affected me. It makes me sad to think how they all felt about this transparent lie and how much it must have killed them to watch it happening. I can't stand what my addiction to cigarettes allowed me to do to those around me. And fuck that. Don't belittle me. It is hard as shit and we both know it, and should never have smoked a cigarette in our lives because it is going to and will and already has killed us both. So let's stop denying it. Unless what you want to is challenge fate and death and most likely come out on the losing end like both your parents. Fuck. This sucks.

How do you force your father to quit smoking?

.

Day Fourteen

I was so busy celebrating the two week anniversary of the demise of cigarettes in my life that I saved no time to post yesterday. I'm OK with that, however. I had a lovely evening with some of my favorite people in the world, ate some delicious pumpkin pie, and watched a beautiful, slow fire burn in my fireplace rather than down the end of a Camel.

Being the geometric and numerical person that I am, I happen to love 'complete' numbers or sets, like 3 (as in trinity), 5 (half of ten), ten (as in decade or numerical step), etc. Seven, of course, is one of these manufactured 'complete' sets as it designates the passage of a week of time; the fact that this number has occurred now twice regarding my quitting has more than doubled my happiness and self-pride. Two fucking weeks. That is a long time for a smoker to gone without a single cigarette; not even a puff. Hell yeah!

I apologize for the gushy-ness of this post, but I am in one of those moods, given the season and this milestone. I would like to take this time to thank quite possibly the greatest mother-in-law of them all for your persistent love and support. You, somehow, understand me in this moment perhaps better than anyone else in my life and have been the strongest mental crutch for me. I love you. Lauren, it is comforting knowing your eyes and positive intentions diligently follow this blog on a daily basis. Thanks for being here for me. Coleman, thanks for not taking up smoking again and ruining my quitting as I have done to you so many times! And finally, of course, my love, who is willing to put my best interest in front of her own. I finally feel free and clear; no need to care for me anymore! It's finally my turn to coddle you and completely support your new and future endeavors. No more storm...

Day Thirteen

So, I know the theories differ on how long exactly it takes to cure oneself of the habit aspect of cigarette smoking. My cravings have been extremely down, but I am still called by Royal Farms almost every morning as I pass in en route to work; or by my coffee as I sip it post-meal; or right now as I sit down to write. Some people claim three weeks does the trick, some say four, others say months. I say, Thirteen Days. Today was perhaps the first day I felt truly finished with cigarettes. Wasn't very cranky at all (or I'm sure I will hear about it soon); didn't fiend - I craved but never fiended for a smoke. My cravings have been rendered vacant thoughts. Empty intuitions. Wrong answers.

This all got me to pondering an interesting dilemma from one of my favorite scenes in one of my favorite movies ever (on the other end of this link):

(please excuse the sound delay).

Is it okay to 'have one?' and when exactly would that be?

Day Twelve

A haiku hybrid...

Extra time to spare?

Have a cig to make it pass?

Write a 'ku instead.

I tried that once, but, alas, it did not work, many days ago. 

Yet this final try,

In which my neck's in tow:

Victory, alas!

Day Eleven

I just finished working a double at work today, so, frankly, I am not exactly in the mood to write on this blog. I have been cracky for most of the day and quite a fiend for the cigarettes, which is quite unfortunate because it is exciting to be in double digit days of quitting. In a way, the novelty of 'quitting' has begun to fade and it daily becomes more of a reality. My 'smoker-self' has been considerably rebellious against this idea. I understand; today I was sympathizing with him and his imminent death, considering prolonging his life with me more strongly than the past few days. I just must keep reminding myself that I do exist as a normal, functioning self without cigarettes; that they are like any other accessory I use to keep my pants up or tell time; that they are useless, harmful, unnecessary, and stupid.

Day Ten

Unfortunately, I am not a dreamer. Every night, I lay in bed, close my eyes, and wake up six to eight hours later with no recollection of any passage of time other than the time passage on my cell-phone clock. My wife has some pretty crazy-ass dreams and her recounting of them to me sparks feelings of disappointment and jealously at my own deficiency. Occasionally, I escape sleep with brief memory of a dream in process and try to tell myself to remember it, but this reasoning must always occur in a still subconscious level because as I reach for the pen and paper waiting on my bedside, I can never remember. Never. The only remnant of my dreams haunt me in the form of the uncanny; a kind of paranoia that colors my every action; an empty paranoia which has no tangible or comprehendible source; a Saussurean signified lacking the sign or the signifier or even the recognition of being signified at all!

This morning, I woke up, put on a pot of coffee, then picked up my jacket. It felt light. Reached into the pocket and realized my cigs weren't in there. I got very confused. I walked around the house for a minute wondering where I might of put them but unable to even begin looking in any place particularly. By deductive reasoning, I eventually determined that I must have been dreaming last night of being a smoker in some capacity and hadn't yet been able to separate that person from the real me. I only wish I knew who I was and what exactly I was doing as a smoker last night. It appears as though I have created a smoker alter-ego who lives in my mind and only shows himself when he knows I am not looking. I think I like this guy, as long as he stays where he is...

Day Nine

So, another day off and no cigs. To be perfectly honest, I cannot remember if I wrote last Thursday about my normal 'Thursdays' - and I am much too lazy to go and look, sorry - but they are probably the hardest days of the week for my smoking. It is nearly one day of absolute freedom. I wake up when I want, eat whatever I want for breakfast, watch The Today Show, drive around pretending to be doing stuff, and smoke whenever I want to. It's true. Sorry love. This is tough openly confront, but I know you already knew; everyone does. I am realizing this now because I can smell all the smokers around me. They stink. Fucking terrible. Ech. Gross. I went into Best Buy last Thursday - sorry I forgot to mention this - to consider buying various items - Inception, various Wii games, a flat screen TV, an iPad, a Kindle - and eventually ended up in the DVD sections on my way to the exit. I, of course, was to buy none of these things, but it is fun to imagine my life with the endless amounts of gadgets and technologies at my every whim. My consumeristic aura, however, was utterly destroyed when, walking along the Action movie section, I walked in front of this man who I believe showered himself in a sauna of cigarette smoke. I wanted to vomit, and I b-lined right to the exit to get some real, fresh air.  This has dramatically stuck with me over this past week and it shocks me. I never realized how absolutely terrible I must have smelled. Sorry love. You had to kiss and rub your face against my stinky face. Ech. Gross. You are an angel.

Anyway, my wonderful doll-face reminded me of a short story I wrote back in college and I wanted to share it with you. It's kind of sloppy, but a lot of fun. Can you solve the mystery?????

Find it in the Documents section, or CLICK HERE

Day Eight

That's right. Day Eight means one whole week smoke-free. I am still having some difficulty comprehending the temporal element of this project; the fact that I will never be a 'smoker' again. As I contemplate the significance of a smoke-free week, something inside keeps telling me, 'Man, it's been long enough. You can have one now.' God, this is so fucking annoying. I just want to be done with this. My empowered feeling is beginning to subside, and I'm starting to get frustrated with myself; with my inability to be completely free of cigs after a week without them, as if I was just on vacation and will soon return to my normal self. This - me - is my normal self. I just want to be free.

On a positive note, I attended the Alonso's Non-denominational Christmas Party and am happy to report that I did not indulge. Difficult does not even begin to describe it. Servers, bartenders, and kitchen-folk are certainly apt to partake in tobacco consumption, but throw in some alcohol and holiday cheer and you have a big fucking cig-fest. And I felt like a junky; plain and simple. I certainly don't want to sound overly dramatic, but looking at the Van Goughey smoke hovering above our heads and its exquisite source, I felt myself getting sucked back in. I could visualize myself with a cig hanging out of my mouth in deep respiratory ecstasy; entranced like perceiving the monolith in 2001: Space Odyssey. I just wanted it in my mouth...Cigs still turning me gay I guess...

already?

My good friend Stephen has left me a terrible phone message regarding his lack inclusion and presence in my blog thus far, and since this project is OBVIOUSLY all about Stephen, it is my duty to apologize to you, Stephen, for my meanpersonness. I feel so bad I think I must just go smoke a whole pack right now Stephen, just for you, and your little...

Day Seven

Today is a big struggle. I struggle to keep my eyes open; my lids long for a sweet, inseparable smooch that will somehow transport me back into my bed - or on the couch, drifting off to some indistinguishable program on the TV. This is trouble.

Of course, being one who normally subsists on minimal sleep on a daily basis, this is a familiar battle, and my learned instincts begin kicking in. I know that walking outside, away from my desk, to snuggle in a corner with a delicious Camel in the brisk, chilling wind will provide the bump needed to get me through until lunchtime, after which I will need to jolt myself out of a mild food energy depletion with the same methodology, which will move me until probably three o'clock or so, when I begin to crumble again and decide a coffee is in order. My travels to Donna's would obviously involve a cig to accompany the first sip of the smooth, warm, sugared coffee and my walk both back to work and my life as a smoker. No way, no way...

Day Six

Another day. No cigs. I now am beginning to understand the difference between an addiction driven craving and an occasional indulgence. It feels great to be in control.

Did I mention, go Eagles? GO EAGLES!

Day Five (on Day Six)

Working an open-to-close double at Alonso's prevents one from timely posting on his blog, but rest assured: the cigs are no match for my self-control. I almost cannot believe it in the same way that I couldn't believe I could happily live my life as a non-smoker - which is a pretty terrible reality to have to face. As I continue to peel back the layers of lies, excuses, and intentional-ignorance, I find myself hating cigarettes even more and more. Yes, I still want to smoke them (badly at times), but for a different reason. In a way, I almost want to see what they would do for me now as one who hasn't smoked for almost a week, but that is just silly and unproductive. I am still myself without cigs - albeit, a tad bit jumpy and occasionally cranky - and I love this new self.

And, if I needed another reason to quit, the Eagles are 1-0 with me as a non-smoker! Go Eagles! Check out this very informative link (especially you, Coleman)!

Day Four

Worst day yet. A busy night at work certainly does not facilitate the removal of tobacco/nicotine from one's everyday existence. But, that does not mean I smoked a cigarette today, because that would be false. Four days without a cig, and after tonight, I feel even better than ever. It was rough trying to keep myself from justifying one cig (or even just one tiny little puff) as a reward for my previous three and a half days of smoke-freeness, but my logical mind has finally kicked back in an reminded me of the inherent flaws in this logic. Starting to feel the grip loosening...Very nice...

Day Three...uh oh

Alright. So I'm told that day three is biologically the hardest day as the nicotine is finally almost completely out of my system, and I will be honest, I REALLY WANT A FUCKING CIGARETTE! All day. Since the moment I woke up. 'Just one cig. Just one more pack'. No more. I almost feel kind of nice today, my body that is. I have been doing this unusual coughing thing that is normally a result of the combination of winter, cold weather, and frequent trips outdoors to smoke, but today, it has been different. It's kind of weird. My lungs are not filling with mucus and other kinds of greenish-yellow nastiness, but are actually clearing; they are expelling the shit I have been putting in my lungs these past several years. At least, that is what it feels like. It's cool. I dig.

What I don't dig and, in fact, quite dread is going to work tonight. Not that I hate working or anything like that, but it is simple: I smoke at work more than anywhere else. Come on now; I work at a bar. That's what people do at a bar. Of course, they must go outside now, but the principle is still the same: alcohol + food = cigarettes. Now, I don't indulge in any of these things, of course, but what I do is handle the stress of providing these accommodations to rich, stuffy people who love to treat me like an inferior human being. This, I find to be inexcusable, but given the fact that my living and that of my boss (who I love dearly) depend on my quality of service I provide, I must just bend over which each over-priviledged asshole gets to deeply penetrate my acquiescent anus.

Cigarettes definitely work to soften the blow; the four and a half minutes I get to breathe poisoned air that forcibly convinces my body to chill out and move on. I might as well just drink on the job, or get high on the job; would work just as well. But that would defeat the purpose of fully confronting reality, wouldn't it? The cigs do nothing but manufacture a resolution that really never occurs. What I want to say to half of my tables is 'Fuck off', but I can't, because I would get fired and, to be perfectly honest, perhaps they have the right to do so. I have chosen to be in this profession. If I hate it THAT much that I must resort to substance abuse in order to deal with it, then I should just quit; it's not that important. I'm not the fucking president or CEO or even manager; just a simple little waiter. This place doesn't rely on me...

...and now I am making progress. I feel good. I love my place of work and part of this entire package is the line of assholes waiting to make their helpless waiters and waitresses feel like a worthless piece of shit. That's cool. Bring them on. They mean nothing to me; I don't know who they are or why their life is so atrocious they must try to bring me down with them, and, frankly, I don't care. I will smile to them and provide them their food and nod my head and be their little fucking servant for an hour or so because, deep down, I love them. They pay my bills; they are my beneficiaries; they buy my wife's desserts (which are certainly 'beautiful and delicious'); they were giving me both the ammunition and the means with which to purchase my legal drug, and I love them for all they provide for me. Without the cigs, they provide me with strength; with courage to walk into a situation I know will suck terribly and somehow walk away with a 20% gratuity. Nice...

Day Two

Ha ha...

So, I was wondering if you thought you would find another post here. Knowing me, you obviously know that I love to take on various challenging activities and quickly tire of them. Bread baking (although I still sometimes rock a loaf or two), knitting (although I always try to knit a new hat and eventually will pop out another one once I lose my current one), herbal teas (that didn't get very far past a couple trips to Teavana and a book called Zen and Japanese Culture), etc. You assumed I would give up both this project and the more pertinent one of my life tobacco/nicotine free, didn't you.

This morning, preparing for my Alonso's delivery, that is exactly what my inner smoker was saying to me. You guys know each other? Weird. Thee hath little faithe, my love, and I find that to be perfectly acceptable. Please, disbelieve me. Tell me I will fail once again. That's cool. Read me and validate me. I have too much pride to show even an ounce of my weaknesses and will therefore dominate you. I am not helpless; a little child wallowing in a ripcurrent to and fro. I am the sea, and I bite like Komodo Dragons motherfucker!

A Lovely Dinner

What is it about frustrating conversations that make me want to suck on one of those beautiful little cancer sticks? Suck on it? Interesting...Is cigarette smoking making me gay, or is it the quitting that makes me gay? I am not a quitter, am I?

So, I am writing this right now as I contemplate an evening of frustrating conversation I only hope and pray was productive to the person with whom I was speaking. My mind is telling me, 'Just go outside, have a puff, and relax yourself', and the sad thing is, I know it will. But, if this evening has taught me anything, it has reminded me that I make the world that I live in. It is myself that is creating my current anxiety and, therefore, it is myself that can extract it from myself.

As I think about another friend (and hopefully reader of this blog), it reminds myself how important it is exhibit self-reliance when confronted with difficult situations rather than turning to something exterior in order to mask it; remove it from my mind. I don't need to rely on substances to obtain happiness and calm and comfort, and with that, I feel my chest relaxing and my fingers soften and my heart not trying to bust through my ribcage, and I will go to bed, dreaming of my first day cigarette free.

Day One

Given the nature of this blog, it seems necessary to set out a few personal guidelines which, documented herein, will function as a contract with myself, never to be terminated or expunged.

1. I make this commitment to neither smoke a cigarette nor use any tobacco products (chew, dip, electronic cigarettes, etc.) until the end of my life. I arrive to this commitment after many years of contemplation upon the act of smoking and the consequences inherent with this act. As one with a remarkable about of both pride and self-consciousness, I embarrassingly (but finally) admit that every cigarette I have smoked in my life has been against my better judgment. In fact, my habit has helped to support one of the worst economies and corporations - one that benefits on the direct destruction of my body and life - yet another political self-contradiction. Fuck that. I, here, on this public forum, admit my absolute idiocity and stupidity, and from this day forward will work to save face and regain my dignity by never touching a Camel, Marlboro, Parliament, Winston, occasional Newport (gross!), and any other nicotine/tobacco product. Breach of this contract incurs punishment below.

2. I will post on this blog everyday until it seems unnecessary to do so further (regarding my cigarette smoking, of course). I do not place limits on the quantity of times I will post per day, but I assume it will mostly occur once daily. The form/style/content of the blog will differ depending on my own personal desires or current needs regarding my mental state in this quitting process.

3. Everything written on this blog will adhere to the strictest definition of truth, that being all of which is real. I commit to never writing a word of falsity herein. Although article one presupposes an eternal lack of tobacco/nicotine in my life, were the author to breach the above contract and face the consequences outlined below, he will clearly document that here for all to see, laugh, point, and scoff at. The goal of this project is to obtain complete transparency which, frankly, I have been unable to achieve thus far in my cigarette quitting endeavors, thus allowing me to fail (sorry, Love). This time, I will not accept that, and neither will you.

4. Were I to breach this contract and use a tobacco/nicotine product, the penalties will be as follows. For our unfortunately violent friends, you are hereby granted the ability to punch me with full force on either left or right bicep. This punch must be closed fisted without the use of any supplemental materials such as brass-knuckles, rolls of coins (any denomination), boxing gloves with stones in them, etc. For our pacifist friends, I will provide five dollars in American currency to all who read and comment to the blog the day on which I fail. For those not as committed to reading this blog as I am to quitting smoking, I will consider writing you a poem or short story of your chosen theme and content. And for all those who find nothing here for them, punishments may be negotiable.

I ask all you, friends and foes, to assist me in this unfortunately difficult struggle to quit smoking.