I quit smoking.
I can say that honestly, too, because I haven’t had a cigarette in ten days and even though it’s dead week and I want one, because the last two weeks of school are when I smoke even when I’m not smoking, I get a bit nauseous thinking about smoking.
I think this is partially due to the amount of ashes I sweep off the stairs at my sister’s house.
We generally take turns doing it, becuase it has to be done daily, otherwise a revolting compound of ashes, loose tobacco leaves that get pinched out of finished cigarettes, and dirt from the Dork-In-Law’s boots and the boys’ boots and my boots winds up in the hall.
From a purely poetic standpoint, I tell myself that I’ve walked through enough ashes in my life (mostly from bridge-burning) and I’d prefer not to have to do it on the way to school.
If you lived with four other smokers, all of whom are fairly heavy smokers at that, (the renter’s boyfriend chews, so he smokes less. I think he chews so he doesn’t have to get up to do it.) you would see the ashes from dozens of cigarettes at the end of the day and think to yourself, as I did this morning, “Damn. We put this shit in our bodies.”
Take a piece of paper out of your printer. Weigh it in your hand.
Now burn it in your kitchen sink with the window open. Weigh the ashes in your hand.
What you are not feeling in the significantly lesser weight of the ashes is what you would have imbibed if you had smoked that piece of paper.
Now, I’m not about to preach. Smoking is a choice each person makes, so long as they do it outside. Besides, I give it until next Tuesday before I fall right back off the wagon and have a Fuck-you-world, I-can’t-take-another-night-of-sleep-deprivation-and-school-induced-stress smoke.
I wouldn’t say it’s inevitable, but history suggests it’s bloody likely, unfortunately.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m running on two hours of sleep and I have a pile of work to do before I get my next two. Hopefully, they will not be the only two.