Smoking Again

Last week I smoked again for the first time in four years. It was nothing, really. Linda and I were curious about cigars, so we bought one. We were so pathetic. We took ten minutes just to choose one. We didn’t have a way to light nor cut it, so the guy gave us matches and a blade, which we didn’t know how to use. (The guy eventually cut it for us.) Once cut, I tried to light it, in the process wasting several matches and soaking one end of the cigar with my spit.

Eventually, we lit it. I smoked it like a cigarette; she smoked it like a joint. (I heard you’re just supposed to puff a cigar instead of inhaling it, which we did.)

Tonight, I considered taking up smoking again. It was something I had joked around with Linda about last week, but watching Sex in the City was a further reminder.

I don’t know if it’s the subliminal advertising or the sudden intake of nicotine into my system last week. I keep thinking that it’s nothing, really. Just a little bit of smoking. I don’t smoke much, and I doubt I will ever become a chain smoker. What’s the harm?

I never really felt the nicotine the first time I smoked, anyway. I just liked the action of smoking, the way I blew smoke out of my mouth and nose, the way I flicked the cigarettes away at the end.

I wonder why I even consider smoking, though. It’s analogous to taking a knife and stabbing myself every time, really. If anything, it’s just evidence of my willpower losing to the nicotine or subliminal product placements.

I think I have better things to do with my money.