Smoking is a bad habit. It’s terrible. Awful. Kills people.
Q smokes, and he has to quit. Quitting, for some people, is really hard. Even when you know exactly how bad it is, it’s hard.
I smoked for a little while, when I was younger and lived overseas. Quitting, for me, was easy. I just stopped: it was never a habit for me. I didn’t have the itch; I never craved it. When I moved back to Canada, I hated spending the money.
In hindsight, smoking made me look like a moody teenager. There are a lot of smokers in my family, and all of them looked at me like I was going through a phase. I hated their condescension, but they were also right: I did it more for shock value than anything else. Because I was 22 and wanted to say: “Look, I can treat my body with disregard too.”
Now, I want a long, healthy life. I want that more than I want to show my parents that I’ve grown up.
Last night, Q lit a cigarette as we were driving home though, and the smell! It was that gorgeous tobacco flower sweetness.
For a brief moment, I understood how you’d get hooked. Not because you wanted to rebel against your parents, but because you want to inhale that beautiful tobacco scent. You want to rub it all over yourself and roll in it.
I’m determined to find a nice tobacco flower perfume or some scented candles or something. Anything is better than sitting with a box I’ve pilfered from Q’s pocket, greedily smelling one dart at a time.
