Don't you dare think about quitting smoking.

The other night I smoked a cigar to celebrate the end of an era. Again.

I started smoking cigarettes fairly late. To be honest, I started most things late, but that's another post. The first cigarette I ever smoked was in high school, I was a serious dramatic actor, see, it was for a role. We'll ignore the fact that a fifteen year old smoking indoors on school property with the support of his drama teacher seems like a bit of a miscue but, while I forget the exact scene, I can assure you I was quite dashing.

At the time, my only friends were girls. As has often happened in my life I was the gay-not-gay guy that was happy to talk about feelings instead of sports. They taught me how to smoke a cigarette and made fun of me for "ashing like a girl" (even though that's how they showed me) and most of all, pointed out how I didn't inhale.

I must've had some success inhaling at some point, because I distinctly remember vomitting in some bushes after being encouraged to smoke in the backseat of a co-worker's car. I was a lifeguard at the time, able to hold my breath for over a minute, so my powerful, pink lungs really did it for me.

But I don't count that.

What I do count is the summer after I finished University.

I had just broken up with a long term girlfriend and was at the now defunct Green Room with a few friends. I was pacing in the alley way outside, deeply entrenched in a fourth or fifth (or 20th) phone call with my ex who felt curiously compelled to constantly redial me despite no new updates on our situation.

Coming back in, I demanded a cigarette, lit it off one of the candles, inhaled like a pro and exhaled loudly. Dramatics still intact. Ah, smoking in bars... the good ol' days.

Since then, I've been a fairly regular to fairly extreme smoker.

Like a smokestack. A forest fire.

I tried quitting several times in the past. I've used the patch, the gum, I've read the Complete Guide to Quitting Smoking (or whatever it's called). Sex helps when quitting, so does excessive amounts of pot. So does going temporarily insane, but that's not something you choose.

For a million little reasons, I always started again. Moving to Halifax, emotional turmoil, the drop of a hat, Captain Black's don't count, life is hard, I'm really high, hey look, I got drunk.

I seem to always start smoking because I want to feel worse. Dramatics.

I started with DuMaurier, tried the ultra-cheap but headache inducing Native's-in-a-bag, moved to Peter Jackson's (cheapest in Halifax) and settled on Belmont's.

Whenever I felt really alone, really depressed, introspective, thoughtful, agitated... a smoke would help stop the world, draw out the moment, give me a reason to not go on.

When I quit, I whistle more. Not sure why.

The best cigarette you can possibly have is the one that gets you over the top about half an hour after you take MDMA. The subsequent ones are pretty fantastic too.

Smoking a joint without a cigarette chaser just felt wrong. Bars have patios these days for a good reason.

Plus, I look cool smoking a cigarette. I just do.

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Both of my grandfather's were heavy smokers.
They both died painful deaths, both with lung cancer.
I saw what my parent's went through and I still talk about how cool I look smoking a cigarette.

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In rehab we're told, if we smoke, keep it up. Nicotine doesn't affect the brain in the same way as other addictions, so smoke 'em if you got 'em and don't spare the caffiene. The least fun drugs! What kind of deal is that?

I guess the thought is, if we're kicking the booze, the coke, the oxys, etcetc, don't overdo it. Don't push it, 'cause it'll break. I embraced this, if I could have nothing else at least I had my smokes. And, boy, lemme tell you, you ain't seen someone smoke til you see people smoking at rehab. I was over a pack a day in there and thank god the men in rehab were so goddamn chummy because I hate bumming cigarettes, even if they're the headache inducing Native's.

I don't smoke because I like it anymore. I smoke because I have to. I guess that's always true, but I've never noticed it before. I suppose living in your parent's basement, only emerging to smoke a solitary cigarette, freezing on their porch while staring out at the dead of suburbs helps.

So, I smoked a cigar, slapped on a patch and am ready to try again. If I'm going to be a rebranded teetotaler, might as well make it complete. Today I ran for thirty minutes on a treadmill and didn't die.

Tomorrow I go for forty five.