Last Mothers Day was the one year anniversary of when I quit smoking because smoking is dumb. I read once -- and I feel this expresses it best -- if you are still smoking knowing all the things we know about smoking, then you have mental problems.
But in my head, I love smoking and I miss smoking. I can only love it in my head and in fantasy Vargas pictures of myself (see realistic picture of me on the left). But knowing it is so blatantly poisonous and harmful -- it's like swallowing Ninja stars and hoping it won't tear up your intestines -- there is no way I can ever put another delicious Capri menthol to my lips.
It was the decadence of smoking that was the most fun for me. It was a bit of a thrill to be so carelessly uncautious. Look at me, I'm smoking and relaxing and doing whatever the fuck I want, I would think smugly in my car because alone in the car was the only time I really smoked. And while smoking was the only time I was ever that reckless. My one rebellion. One middle finger; nobody tells me what to do except ME. Then I smartened up and told myself to knock that stupid shit off.
I quit on Mothers Day because I knew smoking was a loud announcement to my family that it was ok to shorten my life, though they never witnessed me smoking. And how unimaginably unfair was that to two little girls that whole-heartedly, body & soul, cling to me? Visualizing them having to bury me because of my jackassery was enough to get me to stop. I couldn't do it anymore; no matter how - buried deep in my mental problems -- delicious and decadently sweet I still think it is.