Burn.

As of January 1, 2010, pretty much every American (sans those of you with self-esteem) vowed to change something about either themselves or that fucked the fuck up lifestyle of theirs. Being the amalgam of foibles that I am, I decided to give up one of my lesser vices for the sake of assimilating into the positive change crowd (and perhaps getting in on a free conversation starter redeemable no later than mid-February.) In 2010 (I’d like to think) I’ve officially quit smoking. Not because it’s unhealthy or because smoking lost it’s trendy/edgy status in tween culture years ago. At my age I could give two fucks about my health right now and could care even less about how cool I look to the next dude/broad. I know who I am, and I think that dude kicks ass. I decided to put down the bones because of what they symbolize for me… Just to throw this out there, I’m a conversational smoker at my worst. Call me a sheep, whatever. I do my dirt sparingly. Well, up until recently. Now, I find myself not quite craving the nicotine, but instead seeking refuge in the veil of solitude provided by that simple plume of smoke. There’s no actual chemical addiction that I’m aware of, no fixation on sucking in fiberglass or hastening my demise. Mortality and bodily health aren’t the issues here. Cigarettes began to provide me a strange sort of hiding place (see Joe Budden- 10 Minutes.) For some reason or another (vascular constriction or magic, your call) once that fire hits my lungs and I let out that first smoke-filled breath, everything is fine. I have no worries as long as the cherry is burning and I can peacefully watch the smoke dissipate in whatever breeze is available. That slight Vick’s-flavored buzz provides a moment of solace I could only match by meeting the bottom of a bottle. Smoking became my way to cope. Not only with stress, but boredom, fear and any other emotion that could be passed off as a reasonable excuse to light one up. Cigarettes became a tangible metaphor for life, if you will. The inhalation, the feeling of the smoke pricking your lungs and diaphragm, lathering your insides with menthol and fiberglass, meant something more than the subtraction of 10 minutes from my biological clock. It became the physical extension of some punk ass emotional shit I couldn’t put a finger on. That pain, while minute, acts a wake-up of sorts, but more importanly as a right of passage to the coveted exhale. The exhale is where tobacco companies make their money. That relief is near impossible to find elsewhere (legally.) Picture yourself sighing. One of those relaxing “on to better things” kind of sighs that you work for and cherish for every moment your lung capacity allows. Now, picture that sigh being mint-flavored and plus steroids. And on repeat for a good five to ten minutes depending on how shitty your lungs look. Cigarettes became an extension of a sigh for me. They replaced an actual sigh of relief and eventually became more than that. However briefly the sensation lasted, those Newport 100s allowed me some sorta’ tactile feedback from whatever idea was plaguing my mind at the time and gave me the chance to rid myself of it in a simple mentholated breath. This wasn’t a bad thing. It still isn’t. In my youth, smoking is yet to break my health in any noticable way. And it helps to have a voiceless, inanimate shoulder (with 19 friends in the box it came from) to lean on whenever you need it. But this reliance on cigarettes has changed me in a bad way, thus inspiring me to give up the sticks all together. All my problems are now solved in 3-5 minutes, and I’ve grown noticably less as a person because of such expedient, passive solution searching. I don’t strive for anything like I used to. Why? Because I can step outside and light up a square and convince myself that I’m fine the way I am, even if I’m not. Cigarettes lie and tell me everything’s fine, when everything’s not. They’ve become little ephemeral yes-men; and until now they’ve prevented me from fulfilling my actual New Year’s Resolution of Aiming Higher. That’s a whole different 15 minutes of writing though.

Fuck Newports and my cool ass Zippo collection. On to better things.

And who else notices that the folks in Newport ads don’t really look like Newport smokers?
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