I have not smoked a cigarette since 11 o'clock last night.  Kevin said I should just stop and make up my mind, but I just wanted ONE LAST FINAL REAL ONE.  A kiss goodbye, if you will.  I sat on my balcony in pajamas from Christmas '10 (thanks, Mom) and gently, lovingly, smoked a Pall Mall to the filter.  I really hate them and still don't understand why Kevin insists on buying shitty brands, but it was better than breathing air.

It's difficult for him to understand the emotional attachment I have to smoking.  He can go all day without one, he never smokes when he's sick.  How do you tell your boyfriend that quitting smoking feels like breaking up?  I (fuck me) feel significantly less myself.  I want to be sitting outside, not enjoying the air, but enjoying tar-coated inhalations of heaven.  I want to be drinking my coffee with a lit cigarette, not a gnarly cough-- the residue from smoking a carton of Winstons, a brand which clearly does not know the meaning of "light cigarette."  

Mostly, I wish I had never known the delicate, secretive pleasure of smoking so I wouldn't have to mourn its loss.  Sure, in a week I'll be able to tap dance better than Ginger Effing Rogers.  Maybe I'll be able to run again--no, never, actually.  I will never go running.  But what about the first time I have alcohol as a non-smoker?  What about Christmas morning?  How am I supposed to enjoy nature if I'm not polluting it?

I obviously am having some sort of identity crisis, which is probably all the more reason to stop smoking.  I feel like I'm on the edge of losing my shit, but I don't know if I would feel like that if I hadn't read Wikipedia and WebMD entries on the anxious, irritable hellpit that is smoking cessation.  

I'm going to sit in bed with a cup of thick coffee and a glass of grapefruit juice (toxin flushing?! Jury's out or full of shit), watching "Sons of Anarchy" in between Middle English homework.  It would be helpful to have a roommate.  Or an induced coma.