I've quit smoking. (for the 27th time...)

I was thinking—looking down at its burning ember end—and considering the fact that this could be my last cigarette, possibly ever. Thinking, what am I doing here? Breathing smoke, coating my lungs with god-knows-what, and all for a paltry three minute buzz. I can quit. Absolutely. I can walk up that flight of stairs to the apartment without having to light up again at the top. I can get into my car without digging through pockets for a butane. This will be the new, healthier me.

But I’ve learned; the harms of smoking seem trivial when your brain’s had a recent visit from sweet lady nicotine. Now it’s been something like three days, and I’m beginning to miss even the flik, flik, flik, of that lighter, almost empty. Sitting outside on cold days, together with the other outcasts, melting the fingers of my polyester gloves while prolonging my last drag. You know, the little things that make me forget about the whole, cancer, thing.

But then again, surely one more couldn’t hurt, right?

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