Day One: Coping With the Rage

Unless one has smoked tobacco products for a substantial length of time, one cannot know the utter panic that ensues the instant the last one is snuffed out.

I am no longer a smoker. I will not be defined by smoking. I will not smell like cigarette smoke. My skin will not get dry and crackly before the age of 40. My lungs may recycle themselves. I no longer have the social standing of a rabid, slightly retarded leper. I can develop my own judgmental and self-righteous attitude about the dangers of smoking and be cool like the rest of the non-smoking world and make people who are still smoking feel like rabid, slightly retarded lepers because obviously they have not seen the neat, minimalist billboards. They must not know, or worse, care, that they are destroying their bodies and everyone else’s right to clean, fresh air. It is now my job to educate the poor trash of which I was once a part.

For some reason, when I give up smoking, I feel overwhelmed and controlled by utter, blazing rage. I want to KILL MAIM HURT. I think this says something pretty profound about me. It says that the only reason I smoke is to keep from killing the rest of you, and giving up the death sticks may be good for MY health, but it is

Definitely. Bad. For. Yours.

I don’t know how, but this is all your fault. I need a Fight Club for Girls.