About a week ago I had a 24-hour stomach bug. I’ll spare you the details, but let’s say my streak ended at 10 years and 9 months.

I was in bed for two days straight. One day because I couldn’t physically get out of bed, and a second day because my wife wouldn’t let me get out of bed until I was “all better.”

I love my wife.

At the end of day two I realized I hadn’t had a cigarette in two days. Even better? I didn’t want one.

So, I thought in my wonderfully rational mind that I would just quit. I hadn’t had a cigarette in two days, how hard could it be?

Besides, I wasn’t a heavy smoker to begin with. I only smoked about two packs per WEEK. “Average” smokers in this country smoke about a pack a day. I was a quarter of that. Piece of cake.

Now it’s been a week since I’ve had a cigarette and I have come to a conclusion.

It. Fucking. Sucks.

There hasn’t been a 15 minute stretch in the last 5 days (less two days when I was too sick to give a shit about cigarettes) where I haven’t wanted a smoke.

I’m jonesing for a fix.

I started chewing on toothpicks (thank God for toothpicks) because I couldn’t come up with anything else to replace the cravings that wasn’t as bad for me as the cigarettes.

I NEED a cigarette. I keep thinking “I’m not a heavy smoker, anyway. It’ll be ok.”

And you know what?

That pisses me off.

Like I said, I was never a heavy smoker. I was never even an AVERAGE smoker. I always told myself that: I’ll be OK because I don’t smoke a lot.

I smoked because I liked it.

Now, a week on, I realize I smoked because I NEEDED it.

I am an addict.

And it pisses me off.

Being an addict means my mind and body aren’t following my orders. The chemicals have taken over, they’re controlling my actions.

That shit stops here and now. There is only one person making my decisions for me (and I have my wife’s permission to say that).

So, one week in, here’s my promise:

I AM AN EX-SMOKER.

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