since I quit smoking. I started around the summer of my 17th year (1988?). That's when I stepped into my High School prime, junior year. Drinking, parties, maybe one date or two, drinking, pot, drinking, um, you get the picture. My socialability quality came to fruition. I became, as my cousin C.A. referred to me years later during some college Christmas break at the Oiler Pub in a complimentary way, "The King of Bullshit." Bullshit in the vein of, when drinking, I could hold a conversation with anyone: the bartender, the factory worker, the punk, the hippie, the jock, the criminal, the weirdo, the princess, and the nerd. Anyone. Even people I hated.
But I digress. This post is about smoking. Or, rather, the absence of smoking. Of not smoking and missing the hell out of it. Yes, it's been nearly two years that I stubbed out my last smoke (April 26th, 8:32 p.m.) and took up the role of Non-Smoker. With only 3 slips at the beginning. And they burned the hairs off my throat: blech!.
On certain days or moments, I can still get the urge for a Camel Light. Rainy afternoons walking. A good cup of coffee outside. A night at the Empty Bottle. Long car rides. Thursdays. You know. When I gave up smoking, it's like I gave up one my genes, one of my characteristics, an important part of me. Sometimes I miss the whole bonding moment at parties or such when a friend is low on smigs and you give them one, or you both sneak out to buy a pack at the nearest 7-11. It was a way to break the ice with women at events. Smoking culture. It also was an excuse for extra breaks at work ha ha ha.
And here is the lovely Bazima waxing nostalgia on the subject much more eloquently than I.