It’s a Piece of Cake!
To paraphrase that great American philosopher, William Claude Dukenfield (aka W. C. Fields),
Quitting smoking is easy. Why, I’ve done it hundreds of times!
And I have. And I keep coming back to it.
Coffin nails. The noxious weed. Cancer sticks. I’ve heard them all. Lung busters.
Hell, I’m even smoking one as I write this.
It’s an addition, a crutch. And a great way to kill boredom…if not myself.
It’s the stereotypical image of a writer: cigarette in one hand, glass of whisky in the other, starting at a blank piece of paper, deciding what to write. Or in Hemingway’s case, replacing the shot glass with a shotgun.
Except I’m not suicidal. Or am I? Smoking is, if nothing else, slow-motion suicide. Russian roulette with better odds. The depressive’s choice of poison.
I like smoking. I like the first cigarette of the day, in conjunction with the first cup of tea of the day. I smoke and toke as I read Medium stories, looking for new works by my favorite writers. Finding new writers. Hell, it’s every bit as good as a public library — or it would be if I could smoke and drink there.
But I’m not ready to quit, not really, Not now. I’m pretty sure they time will come when the dollar cost outweighs the benefits. They always do.
Believe me, I know.
I’ve done it hundreds of times.