I Am A Fiend

I am. It’s true. I’m a monster.

I’m quitting smoking. (I know, I’ve been saying this for months. But it’s been a months-long process. Honestly.)

I like to think that I am a woman of my word. I’m headstrong, often to the point of being ridiculously stubborn. When I say I’m going to do something, I do it. For the most part. Mama ain’t no flake.

Giving up cigarettes has been an entirely different story. To my own credit, I’ve cut back from about 5+ packs a week to less than 2 packs a month. This has been difficult, and I’m proud of me. I’m currently patting myself on the back.

Robbo is a nonsmoker, which is making quitting easier. I don’t think I could live with a smoker if I was trying to quit. In fact, my last roommate smoked like a two-stroke engine, which made me smoke more, which I think made her smoke more and suddenly we both had black lung and the cat coughed all the time. No good. (Paul assures me that ‘two-stroke engine’ is not an obscure reference. I’m undecided.)

In order to facilitate my quitting, I performed the following steps:
1) took my last pack of cigarettes
2) handed them to Robbo
3) said, “Hide these from me, and only give me one if I really, really beg.”

This, of course, has set me up for degrading myself constantly. I say, “Hey, can I please please please have a cigarette?” and Robbo says, “Are you serious??” and then he looks at me all disapprovingly and I feel awful. This was the plan! This was supposed to make me quit! I don’t want to degrade myself! (Unless it’s on the interweb, on my blog— in which case I degrade myself daily.)

Instead, I decided I was just going to dig up the pack. One night while Robbo was out, I started searching. And by ‘searching,’ I mean, ‘tearing shit apart like a buzzard on a roadside carcass.’ I found the pack in a box at the bottom of his bookshelf. I ripped the lid off the box, grabbed the cigarettes, pulled one out and lit it with an, “ahhhh.” Smokers--you know this feeling! Amazing. Orgasmic. I sat on the floor, amidst the rubble I had created in my search, and puffed away. With the windows closed. Because I am a genius.

When the final puff was gone, and the cigarette stubbed out, I looked around at the mess I had created. I was ashamed. Ashamed like a cheap hooker. Ashamed like a cheap hooker who said she was going to quit smoking and then tore apart her home to find a hidden pack of cigarettes. That, my friends, is a deep shame.

I put everything back together as best I could and Oust-ed the room. Score! I thought. Robbo will never find out.

He did.

About a week later, I did the unthinkable- I begged for a cigarette. Robbo went into the other room to get it. Tick…tick…tick…
“Hmm,” I thought. “He’s been in there for an inordinate amount of time.” (Yes, I actually use words like ‘inordinate’ in casual thought. No, I don’t. It was probably more like, “Robbo gone long time! Oh my!”)

He came back with a cigarette and a scowl.
Robbo: What did you do?
Me: What are you talking about?
Robbo: Everything on that shelf was messed up.
Me: What shelf?
Robbo: The shelf that had your cigarettes in a box that you clearly dug through!
Me: Maybe one of the cats did it?
Robbo: The cats took down the box that contained your cigarettes and put it back upside down?
Me: …Yes?
Robbo: You’re pathetic.

And the moral of this story is, yes. I am pathetic. And weak. Just wanted you all to know.



-sigh-
Burn on, little lighter. Burn on.