For the night is dark and full of butts

I remember the first cigarette I ever smoked. I was 12 years old, and it was a Lucky Strike. Horrible, isn’t it? Who smokes Luckies?? Haha… me the joker. Sorry about that. OF COURSE I was talking about starting smoking that young, and it’s even worse when I tell you I also started drinking the same night (Bacardi-Coke). It was probably peer pressure. All my slightly older friends did it and they were totally cool. 12 year old me didn’t realize what I was getting myself into, it just made me feel so mature and grown-up. When I see 12 year olds smoking on the streets nowadays, I shake my head. Where are their parents? Ha. Anyway, we were having a house party, and it must have been around 6 or 7 in the morning as the sun was just coming up outside. Some may now wonder what kids that young are doing out all night and no, my parents weren’t horrible at their job. They figured, if they forbid me from doing anything, I’d go behind their back and do it anyway, and one night they’d get a call from the police station somewhere in Eastern Europe saying I have been sold into sex slavery. So as long as I told them where I went and who I was with, they let me go. A freedom all of my friends were really jealous of, because they had to lie to their parents. I mean, I never did anything too stupid, so I can say this parenting technique worked for me. But it didn’t stop me from doing something as incredibly stupid as starting cigarettes. Which brings me back to my story.

So, that morning, me and 3 of my friends were sitting on the bed. I don’t exactly remember how the idea came up but I do remember how everyone was totally excited that good girl little Conrad would do something as rebellious. The first hit was disgusting. I got a little sick to my stomach and a dizzy feeling in my head, which I still get nowadays whenever I managed to not smoke for a couple days. But I wouldn’t stop. All my friends were watching me and I was under a lot of pressure to finish this damn thing. And then I was officially one of them and I kept it that way.

Throughout the years, I “quit” several times, for a few months at a time. Once I even managed a bit more than a year and I was sure I had finally kicked the habit for good. But then I met a guy who was a smoker, and… well, you all know the fairy tale of Angelina and Billy Bob. I’m a social and mostly an emotional smoker. What I mean by that is, whenever I get upset, mad or any other kind of negative emotion, I feel the overwhelming urge to smoke. I take comfort in those little devil sticks. I sit on my balcony and the world stops for 8 minutes. Unfortunately, I’m neither alone nor happy very often. So what better time to quit than now. Let’s see how that goes.