I like the sound of the Spanish no fumar better than the English no smoking.

Male and I quit smoking yesterday. Well, he started to quit on Saturday, but I couldn’t quite manage it. When we woke up, there were still five cigarettes left in the pack. We smoked all of those and then around 1 p.m., I couldn’t take it anymore. I caved. I ran up to Seben-Leben and bought a pack. I thought that we could make that pack last, but it seems that I’m the type who will smoke cigarettes if they are there.

I had to quit yesterday because there was no way I was going to quit smoking at work. Fuck that. If I didn’t quit on Sunday, I would be smoking for another week and, well, this shit has to stop. I smoked that whole damn pack on Saturday so that when I woke up on Sunday, there wouldn’t be any. Once I quit, I can never have a cigarette again.

I’ve been smoking for I don’t even know how many years. A long time. Probably over half my lifetime. That’s too long. I hate smoking. Well, really, I love smoking, but I hate the way it controls me. I can’t go much beyond a waking hour without wanting one. It makes it a pain in the ass to work, fly or go see a movie. It’s a controlling habit.

Yesterday, most of the conversation between Male and I went something like “I want a cigarette,” followed by “I know.” We huddled up on the couch like refugees, thankful to not have to be outside on a cold, windy day, but still really wanting to be out there smoking away.

It’s an odd sensation, this withdrawal business. It’s not much fun. You are in a constant state of vague anxiety. You want something constantly. I woke up this morning and the first thing I thought of was a cigarette and how I can’t have one. I am a little light-headed and dizzy and unable to concentrate. If I were to have a cigarette now, it would give me a ridiculous head rush. I’d probably pass out.

Once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far away, I was a drug addict. I was not one of those mess around on the weekend types. It was my full-time job. It got so bad that it was either quit or die again. I quit. I sequestered myself away at my parents’ house in suburbia where I didn’t know how to get any. I was able to move myself away from it. You can’t do that with cigarettes. They’re everywhere.

When I quit hard drugs, I allowed myself cigarettes since I couldn’t quit everything all at once. Well, I’ve been clean for over a decade, but I’m still smoking. Fuck.

Yesterday, Male took the dog outside and he came back in smelling ever so slightly of cigarette smoke. I could smell it across the room. I can somehow smell cigarette smoke five miles away now. I did my best evil monkey:

Apparently, he discovered a half smoked cigarette in the ashtray and didn’t let it go to waste. I wasn’t so much accusing him of cheating; I was honestly really pissed that he didn’t share. Quitting smoking makes you pretty irrational. I was clinging onto Male yesterday and I said something snarky. He said, “You’re very moody today.” I said, “I quit smoking today.” “I guess that earns you a pass.”

I really want a cigarette, but I’m really not going to have one. The more cigarettes I have now, the longer it will take me to be done with the withdrawal portion of this torture and I really want this to be over. It’s almost lunch time and I’m going to have a difficult time not running up to Seben-Leben, but I won’t.

I’m not even sure if what I wrote here makes any sense. I’m not rational, focused or in any way my normal self. THIS SUCKS. Let’s get it over as quickly as possible.