I quit smoking and it's killing me.
Just murmur over that statement for a bit and then laugh.
I write this not because I'm proud, but because I thought I should let you know that -
Sometimes I still have huge cravings, like right now.
Especially when I have nothing else to do. When the thought just strikes my fancy.
Especially when I have writer's block. It would be so easy to just pick up a pack of cigarettes.
Especially in Taiwan where my favorite Korean cigarette brand (Esse) is only 80NTD or roughly $2.75 -- compared to prices in Massachusetts or New York, that's a steal.
And I've never found smokers unattractive... maybe because I grew up with my father smoking. Marlboro Reds. Cowboy killers. He'd come home, wrap me up in his arms -- and I'd inhale the scent of leather, soap, and cigarette smoke. It was a comforting memory. One, that I will not discard. He's quit since then, cold turkey.
And when I worked at Lil' Peach, it was just as a part time job - in high school -- that I quite enjoyed. Tips from lottery winners, an extra smile for the regulars who bought me coffee, and a death glare at the freshman who tried to buy dip... or hit on me. I'd look the other way when people used the slush machine and received life advice from the grandpas who taught me how to appreciate cars. If you're curious? I should have been an accountant and I have an unhealthy obsession with Bentley's.
It was there that I learned the "art" of smoking.... unconsciously memorizing names of cigarettes, registering prices when the excise tax first hit Massachusetts, noting the grimaces on the regulars and increase in the demand for free matches... as opposed to one dollar lighters.
Parliament Lights, Camel Signature, Virginia Slims, Kool, Newport 100's, Marlboro Lights, Lucky Strikes, American Spirit, Carlton, and the list goes on and on. I remember running my hands through the packs -- I stocked them after all. I learned who smoked what -- the hipsters with their Parliaments, the old timers with their Marlboros, and those who smoked American Spirit's because they last twice as long. Double for your money. If you were really classy? You'd request the Nat Sherman's. Special order.
It started with clove cigarettes...
Freshman year of college. With Anne, my favorite person from my memories of back then. Clove cigarettes with hot chocolate. Smacking lips and a tingling sensation -- which meant it was like mint hot chocolate on a cold winter's night... or was it an early spring's frost? Barely discernible whether it was our breath or smoke that billowed out from our chapped lips.
It continued with free cigarettes...
At Chinese night clubs and Beijing bars. During a drink mixed with whiskey and iced tea. A nice addition to the madness and frenzy -- after work during happy hour and at dawn after one helluva night.
It progressed with American Spirit's...
In Paris, France. Where I could find a cafe, people watch, write, and smoke. Yes, I was a fake. I am not a starving artist that uses cigarettes to curb my hunger. Nor am I stick thin or urban chic. But it was fun and easy... meeting people outside on the streets, after a loud conversation by the bar, by the Seine, and waiting for the bus to school. This addiction further fed by the fact that my host mother smoked, constantly. I joined her in a cigarette, and then another, and then another. Forgetting what I was lighting -- the click of a lighter, light in my hands and easy on my ears. Lost in conversation, translation, and the Parisian lifestyle.
It ended with one cigarette...
The last in a pack. And this craving that comes up every once in a blue moon.
But, I'll refrain.
Because I really don't want to walk out in this torrential downpour (typhoon warnings, imminent power outage). I don't have the motivation...
And not enough money,
And not enough time.
And I like running.
And I'm not in Paris anymore.
And it was a new year's resolution.
And people in the United States pass judgment like it's nobody's business (hah).
And I really can't be bothered to explain what an 'addiction' implies in Buddhism.
And when it comes down to it... I really don't want to give my brothers a reason to ever start.
And most and least importantly -- I'm determined, dedicated, and damned if I don't make it to the Mt. Everest base camp next summer. BAH.
Just murmur over that statement for a bit and then laugh.
I write this not because I'm proud, but because I thought I should let you know that -
Sometimes I still have huge cravings, like right now.
Especially when I have nothing else to do. When the thought just strikes my fancy.
Especially when I have writer's block. It would be so easy to just pick up a pack of cigarettes.
Especially in Taiwan where my favorite Korean cigarette brand (Esse) is only 80NTD or roughly $2.75 -- compared to prices in Massachusetts or New York, that's a steal.
And I've never found smokers unattractive... maybe because I grew up with my father smoking. Marlboro Reds. Cowboy killers. He'd come home, wrap me up in his arms -- and I'd inhale the scent of leather, soap, and cigarette smoke. It was a comforting memory. One, that I will not discard. He's quit since then, cold turkey.
And when I worked at Lil' Peach, it was just as a part time job - in high school -- that I quite enjoyed. Tips from lottery winners, an extra smile for the regulars who bought me coffee, and a death glare at the freshman who tried to buy dip... or hit on me. I'd look the other way when people used the slush machine and received life advice from the grandpas who taught me how to appreciate cars. If you're curious? I should have been an accountant and I have an unhealthy obsession with Bentley's.
It was there that I learned the "art" of smoking.... unconsciously memorizing names of cigarettes, registering prices when the excise tax first hit Massachusetts, noting the grimaces on the regulars and increase in the demand for free matches... as opposed to one dollar lighters.
Parliament Lights, Camel Signature, Virginia Slims, Kool, Newport 100's, Marlboro Lights, Lucky Strikes, American Spirit, Carlton, and the list goes on and on. I remember running my hands through the packs -- I stocked them after all. I learned who smoked what -- the hipsters with their Parliaments, the old timers with their Marlboros, and those who smoked American Spirit's because they last twice as long. Double for your money. If you were really classy? You'd request the Nat Sherman's. Special order.
It started with clove cigarettes...
Freshman year of college. With Anne, my favorite person from my memories of back then. Clove cigarettes with hot chocolate. Smacking lips and a tingling sensation -- which meant it was like mint hot chocolate on a cold winter's night... or was it an early spring's frost? Barely discernible whether it was our breath or smoke that billowed out from our chapped lips.
It continued with free cigarettes...
At Chinese night clubs and Beijing bars. During a drink mixed with whiskey and iced tea. A nice addition to the madness and frenzy -- after work during happy hour and at dawn after one helluva night.
It progressed with American Spirit's...
In Paris, France. Where I could find a cafe, people watch, write, and smoke. Yes, I was a fake. I am not a starving artist that uses cigarettes to curb my hunger. Nor am I stick thin or urban chic. But it was fun and easy... meeting people outside on the streets, after a loud conversation by the bar, by the Seine, and waiting for the bus to school. This addiction further fed by the fact that my host mother smoked, constantly. I joined her in a cigarette, and then another, and then another. Forgetting what I was lighting -- the click of a lighter, light in my hands and easy on my ears. Lost in conversation, translation, and the Parisian lifestyle.
It ended with one cigarette...
The last in a pack. And this craving that comes up every once in a blue moon.
But, I'll refrain.
Because I really don't want to walk out in this torrential downpour (typhoon warnings, imminent power outage). I don't have the motivation...
And not enough money,
And not enough time.
And I like running.
And I'm not in Paris anymore.
And it was a new year's resolution.
And people in the United States pass judgment like it's nobody's business (hah).
And I really can't be bothered to explain what an 'addiction' implies in Buddhism.
And when it comes down to it... I really don't want to give my brothers a reason to ever start.
And most and least importantly -- I'm determined, dedicated, and damned if I don't make it to the Mt. Everest base camp next summer. BAH.
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