I suck. I really, really suck. On cigarettes and life.
The smoking continues, unabashedly.
People ask me, “How’s the not smoking coming along?”
I reply with a sheepish look, and instantly, they know. Plus, I’m sure the stench of Marlboro Smooths tips them off, as well.
Why is this so damn hard? Why? I don’t want to smoke anymore. I’m tired of wasting money on shit that going to eventually kill me if I continue. This alone should be reason enough to kick the habit, but I’ll be buggered if I keep smoking.
I just need to quit, stop being a whiny baby, and give it up. Like I mentioned in an earlier post, I started smoking when my marriage started disintegrating, so now that I’m essentially free from the marriage, I should free myself from the nicotine. But I don’t. I’m sure some psychobabbling psychiatrist will say I’m holding on to the habit in a hope that maybe my marriage can be resurrected. Or that I have daddy issues. Or that I was molested as a child. I’m a nymphomaniac with an intense oral fixation. I declare shenanigans on this. I say it’s the goddamn nicotine.
I will try–again–to stop the smoking. I will keep trying until it sticks, I guess.
Anyway, just wanted to update on the Marvelous Misadventures of Me.