I told myself that 33 was it. No more smoking. No more addictions. I gave up booze for 32. It was time to say goodbye to my smelliest, most faithful, most toxic friend. Like so many, I have “quit” smoking before – fairly successfully. I have quit (stopped) for years at a time. It is hard to fathom how one can quit for YEARS and find themselves back to a pack a day like it’s nothing. Like they never even “quit” at all. It is fucked up, is what it is. It is scary. It’s discouraging. Especially 25 hours after the last cigarette, cravings are a bitch, Philip Morris is in your ear saying, “What if the world ends next week! What if you get cancer anyway! Why stop now?”
I had to make a list. I’ve read it several times since I wrote it 12 hours ago when I was suffering through my morning coffee. Kylie is my 9 year old kiddie. She recently started shaming me and worrying about my health. (Thanks YouTube). She has Autism. She has enough to worry about. And she needs me. So I made a list. And I put it on my cute pinterested corkboard that a friend found in the alley behind our beach shack. And 33 will be the year I don’t stop, I will quit. For Kylie.