I will not suck another fag

So I am trying this again.  I have decided that I must stop smoking.  You know, because I don’t want to die.  After twenty years of smoking my lungs need a break.  I probably could pave a tar road with all the shit I have inhaled from cigarettes and I prefer not to become another one of those lung cancer statistics.  But to quit smoking is hard and thus far I have had a zero success rate with it.  Also, I now know how crack addicts must feel and it isn’t pretty people.

I remember when I first started smoking.  It wasn’t peer pressure that got me started.  It was my sister.  You see we went on holiday and my sister and I had to share a hotel room.  I was a scrawny sixteen year old at the time and it was still easy for my sister to bully me.  She is a couple of years older than I am and as strong as an ox when she wants to be.  She was secretly smoking and didn’t want my parents to find out.  Seeing as we shared a hotel room and she being a nicotine addict this obviously posed a particular set of problems for her.

Firstly, at that time I would do anything to get my sister busted and get her into trouble.  Secondly, I was really bad at keeping secrets especially when it was something juicy and about my sister.  So naturally if I caught her smoking I would take our sibling rivalry to an epic new level.  Unfortunately, my sister would have made an excellent Survivor contestant, if she liked the outdoors and being dirty and hungry that is.  She continuously outwitted, outlasted and outplayed me right through our childhood and this time would be no different.

My sister convinced me through her clever psychological trickery that only really cool people smoked.  She also did not want me to be on the outskirts of society and she wanted me to join her sistren of really hip smokers.  See how I just revived a word that was last used in the 16th century.  Sometimes I amaze myself.  Also, I want everyone to start using the word "sistren" again because it is a really cool word.  But I digress... 

Being trapped in a hotel room with my sister was a bit like being a fly in a spider web.  It was in my best psychological and physical interest to not go against her generous sisterly advice on this particular social issue.  So I conceded out of fear and started fake smoking meaning that I would only puff and not inhale the smoke.

By the end of that holiday I was addicted to nicotine and, for obvious reasons, could no longer tell on my sister for smoking.  She had successfully tricked me in keeping her secret and I had now joined her in keeping things from our parents.  Twenty years and several attempts to quit smoking later, I am still a smoker.  In the past I have tried many things to stop.  I have done the patches, the gum, medication and even once thought that I could quit cold turkey.  That did not end well.

Trying to quit anything cold turkey is like playing Russian Roulette with a fully loaded gun.  And the gun is not pointed at your head but pointed at the heads of others.  The time I tried to quit cold turkey I became a ranging emotional bitch from hell.  I had a short fuse and was generally unpleasant to be around.  I also started to behave like that slow cousin in your family that nobody talks about.  I did not like or recognize myself, at the time, and it felt like I lost my best friend and my mind.  I managed to survive a month of not smoking and then succumbed to the demon that is nicotine again.

When I tried to quit smoking on Champix things went a bit better apart from the fact that I almost died.  I had the worst nightmares while on that medication, it fucked up my liver and there were times that it made me ill enough not to be able to go to work.

I managed four months of not smoking on Champix but then we went on holiday to Madagascar and I fell off the wagon again, so to speak.  This is also when I contracted pneumonia and as we headed back home I went to hospital directly from the airport.  At hospital I would take off my oxygen mask to go for a smoke and when I was done I would put back the oxygen.  At least I had the good sense not to blow myself up but pneumonia and smoking – not the best combination.  Sometimes addicts do some weird shit like this.

So here I am again.  Attempt number God knows what.  This time I am staying clear of medications and I have opted to use the electronic cigarette and acupuncture to stop.  Thus far I must say it is going well.  I have cut down from forty cigarettes a day to around three a day.  Actually, the truth is I have cut down to about eight.  No, actually the real truth is I have cut down to ten.  Addicts lie.

I am very lucky to have an understanding husband who has placed no pressure on me at all to stop.  I am doing this for myself.  He doesn’t judge me when I have a cigarette from my not so secret stash and he has been very supportive.  I hope to exclusively smoke the electric cigarette (or like I fondly call it - my electric crack pie) in about a week or two.  Then I will deal with the nicotine addiction and swop the nicotine liquid for the non-nicotine one.

It has been a week since I started weaning myself off cigarettes and lo and behold, nobody has been murdered and I have not died.  Hopefully this time I will succeed in kicking this nasty ass habit and can spend the next sixty years smoke free.  And yes people, to the horror of some I plan to live well into my nineties.

I think the hardest part about quitting is not so much the nicotine addiction but the actual habit.  It is something to do with your hands and is an excuse to get out of the office for ten to fifteen minutes at a time.  However, now days smokers are banned to dodgy smoking areas and treated like lepers due to anti-smoking laws.  So it is best to just quit.  To my lungs, you’re welcome.  To the tobacco industry, I loathe all of you and you can all go fuck yourselves!  

Till next time.

I Am Quitting. Again.

Ok people news flash – I have decided to stop smoking.  Again.  Because you know, I don’t want to die.  At the moment it feels like my lungs are about to apply for asylum because they hate me and they want out of this body.  Also, I might be coming down with bronchitis or pneumonia or some other dreadful disease that you can only catch in the gutters of slums in a third world country.  Either way, I have reached the point where I am sick of smoking and this will be my fourth attempt to break this hold the tobacco companies have over me.  They are sick motherfuckers who are responsible for countless deaths each year and I am hell bent on not becoming one of their statistics.

As I mentioned before, this will be my fourth serious attempt at quitting fags.  The previous times I tried to quit using Patches, Zyban and Campix.  The patches worked as long as I wore them and I managed to quit smoking for about three months.  With Zyban I did not stop smoking at all as half way through my treatment I had a bad reaction to the medication, broke out in hives and looked like I rolled around in poison ivy.  With Champix I stopped smoking for about four months but the side effects of the medication almost killed me and fucked up my liver.  Champix also made me dream of Nazis and I had the most bizarre nightmares while I was on that drug.  I also blame Campix for me contracting pneumonia which landed me in hospital.  Quitting smoking is hard and the way in which you decide to do it is very important.

Going cold turkey is most definitely out of the question as I will in all probability commit a murder.  I am far too pretty for jail and do you even know what they will do to a person like me in prison?  I would become someone’s bitch and end up getting addicted to crack cocaine or crystal meth which is far worse than smoking.  Also, I like my rectum the way it is.  Medication is also out of the question seeing as the previous times didn’t turn out so great.  So I guess I am left to go back to trying the patches again.  I usually wear a patch when I take international flights and they worked wonders to suppress my nicotine cravings.  Let’s hope they do the trick again this time.

I first started smoking when I was sixteen and I blame my sister for my addiction.  You see, she made me smoke while we were on a family vacation and we had to share a hotel room.  She was already smoking at that time and convinced me to try it.  She even bought me a packet of Marlboro’s.  Admittedly when I tried it the first time I found it gross.  But I thought my sister was super cool and I wanted to impress her so I started smoking.  In retrospect I don’t think my sister made me smoke on that holiday to improve my own coolness.  Her real reason to make me smoke was to prevent me from telling on her to our parents.  She can be devious sometimes and this is just one of many times she conned me into doing things that I really shouldn’t have.  Big sisters can be evil like that but I love mine even though she got me hooked on the Devil’s crack aka nicotine.

Normally when I try to quit smoking I tend to become somewhat of a bitch.  I just cannot help it.  I develop a short temper, become emotional and overly sensitive.  I have also been known to throw tantrums in public which is embarrassing for everyone involved.  But taking into consideration that these days smokers are being treated like lepers and we are banned from smoking in most places, quitting might really not be such a bad idea.  I am tired of all the judgmental stares people give you when they walk past designated smoking areas looking at you all like “How gross are those people, sucking on those tar and cyanide filled cigarettes polluting our clean air and killing innocent puppies and kittens”.  I know you judge us; there is no reason to deny it.  If you could throw fake blood on us like Peta does you totally would.  Only it wouldn’t be blood, it would most probably be tar or muddy water.

There have been many times that I regretted that I started smoking.  When you start to smoke you do not know how hellishly difficult it will be to stop.  Many people successfully quit only to start again years later.  Look at my sister for one.  She quit smoking when she had her first child.  She was a non smoker for seven years and then at my birthday party last year she bummed a smoke off me et voillá, after seven years she started smoking again.  Sure it could be seen as my revenge for her getting me hooked on the Devil’s Crack (nicotine) but it just shows how hard it is to stay clean of cigarettes.

The real reason why I have decided to stop smoking, other than the fact that I don’t want to die of lung cancer, emphysema, a heart attack or ass cancer, will be revealed in due course.  Yes, people there is some big news on the horizon and if you want to find out what that is you will have to keep on reading my blog.  And no, I am not just saying this because I want to bullshit you into coming back to read my blog.  The news will blow your mind! But I digress.  My deadline to start weaning myself off the Devil’s Crack is Monday next week.  Bad things usually happen on Mondays so why not start my nicotine rehabilitation on a Monday as the day is going to suck ass anyway.  Hopefully I will stay the course and really quit smoking this time.  Smoking is a filthy habit that will kill me if I don’t stop.

Till next time.

Waking Up Screaming!

 If you like horror movies and you are a smoker who wants to quit smoking, then the pill I am on may be just the thing for you. You see, one of the side effects of taking Champix is vivid nightmares. Not the kind of nightmares where you wake up the next morning thinking “Oh dear, that dream was a tad weird”. No, it is the kind of nightmares where your body is covered with goosebumps, you’re out of breath and your voice is horse from screaming! It is messed up. It is frightening. And it is consistent. Yes, on Champix, every night is horror movie night, and every night you are the star of your very own fright night.

Since I was a child spirits have been around me. Growing up with two grandmothers who were psychic, to various degrees, the concept of spirits and the afterlife have always been part of my reality. I have never feared the dead and up until this night I never had a reason to either. It was a normal evening, by any account. The house was quiet and us, the living occupants, ominously serene and docile. Outside the howling wind was gently swaying trees into a curiously choreographed ballet with the gentle rumbling of thunder announcing the imminence of a summer evening storm.

For no specific reason or purpose hubby suggest I make contact with the afterlife. His suggestion seemed perfectly normal and I felt compelled to comply. In a trance like state I placed my right hand on the table and started moving it around in a circle. With each completed rotation hubby and all things familiar around the table started to disappear like mist being evaporated by the sun. The lighting dimmed and as hubby disappeared the house went silent, I closed my eyes and alone I waited. Then it happened.

In mid rotation my hand was crabbed, pushed down on the table and rather ungraciously dragged across it. In shock I opened my eyes and with shallow fast breaths I could see the distinct impression of five finger marks pressing on my skin as the grip on my hand tightened. Frightened, I tried to pull my hand free from its supernatural grip. My action agitated whatever it was that held on to my hand, it tightened its grip and I could sense it was not going to let me go. I let out a ghastly scream, I was terrified! Seconds felt like hours and all I could hear was the sound of my heart racing in my ears. Minutes passes and just as I thought it was over, it got worse.

One hand grabbing me became two, two became four, four became six. They were pulling on my hand, then grabbing my wrist and then my arm. I could not jerk free. I had no more breath left to scream. I was being pulled across the table, they were hurting me. Then abruptly, everything went black and quiet. The pressure of the hands on my arm was released. I was lying on a cold cement floor; I could hear water dripping, hear whispers and the air was permeated with the smell of death. Slowly I pulled myself off the floor and as I was standing up there they were.

A group of emaciated gay young men, with sunken eyes and nothing but skeletons covered in skin they stared at me. Their eyes filled with fear, desperation and anger. Simultaneously, and as if with one voice they demanded “You must help us... YOU MUST HELP US!” Then they let out a deafening scream the sound of which pushed me onto my knees causing me to cover my ears in pain. As I looked down I could see blood dripping on the floor. It was my blood.

Blood was streaming from my eyes, nose and ears. Still disorientated and feeling weak I felt a pressure under my arms as they pulled me off the floor. They placed their hands on my head and said “We will show you. You will see”. I opened my eyes and there I was in Nazi Germany, naked and in a concentration camp facility. I was freezing cold and in front of me stood a couple of imposing officers and around me a bunch of scared yet defiant young men. “You are going to kill us now” a voice next to me said “You have tortured us, now you’re going to kill us”.

The officers looked at us, careful to avoid eye contact. Like sheep we were ushered down narrow corridors into a facility underground. We reached an empty room and were instructed to go inside. We all knew this was where we were going to die. We were going to be gassed. “Just tell us where the gas is going to come out!” one screamed as the heavy metal door closed. “JUST TELL US!!!” The door slammed shut and as the sound of the guards securing the bolts and locks faded, all eyes turned to the roof of the room. Minutes passed and the room was filled with deathly silence. Then it came.

The silence broke when, without warning, strange looking pellets fell down the air vents at the side of the room. Those standing closest to the vents were affected first. There was allot of screaming, harrowing screams as people panicked as they watched those around them die. Seconds passed before it reached me. My eyes started to water as my nose, mouth and throat started to burn.

I could taste blood in my mouth as the burning sensation spread down my throat to my lungs. “I don’t want to die! I don’t want to die!” I recalled thinking. As I weakened, I started to sink to the floor, in a futile attempt to fight to stay alive I grabbed on to man standing next to me. He was foaming blood at the mouth, his ears bleeding, his skin an oddly looking pink color and as he turned to me he said “No one can save us now”. Then everything turned black.

“Do you see now” a voice whispered softly into my ear and I could feel the warmth of a breath as I heard those words. Then “DO YOU SEE NOW!!!” it screamed. And with that I woke up, terrified, traumatized. Hubby asked me later that morning whether I had a nightmare. I did recall that I did, but at that stage I could not for the life of me recall what it was about. Hubby said that I woke him up with my moans and that my whole body was covered in goosebumps and sweat. It wasn’t until the nightmare repeated itself two days later that I remembered being gassed by the Nazis. I have 17 nights worth of nightmares still to go, who will kill me next, only Champix will know?

Till next time.

Screw You Tobacco Companies; I Am Your Bitch No More!

Dude, kick me in the balls and call me Betty. It’s been over a week since I quit smoking! *Insert boisterous applause and jubilant cheering here* Kicking an addiction is not for the faint-hearted, and no matter what people tell you - nicotine withdrawals is a motherfucking bitch! Luckily for me I have made it this far and I only briefly fell off the proverbial wagon twice. Twice as in I only smoked two cigarettes in eleven days, that’s 138 cigarettes less than what use to be my norm. But, before I get ahead of myself let me tell how this past eleven days went down.

During the last eleven days I have not been my usual ray of sunshine and my days were not filled with rainbows and butterflies. The thing about quitting smoking is that it is more than just an addiction it is a stubborn habit as well. Now, if you know me well you would be aware that I am a creature of habit. I like things happening in a relatively predictable manner and if that is fucked with the computer that is in my head will say NO!

So when I smoked my last cigarette last week Monday, large parts of my routine were altered pushing me, quite a few times, to break down crying like an emotionally disturbed child on the inside, while outwardly having a glazed over “I am dead inside and if you don’t leave me the fuck alone you will be too” expression.

It is strange how small things managed to push me right to the edge of sanity while the nicotine was slowly being deplete from my system. A lady paying in small change for a packet of cigarettes at the corner store, the pickle jar’s lid being stuck, my computer hanging, my inability to untangle myself from my car’s safety belt, reading a clothing account bill incorrectly, burning my toast and my cats staring at me while I was lying in the fetus position on the couch. Yes, all these things had me momentarily lose my firm grip on rational thinking and pushed me right up to the edge of sanity and then gently nudged me over it.

By Wednesday, to add insult to injury, I contracted another eye infection. So not only was I feeling like shit, I managed to look the part too! To make things worse I had to attend a two day seminar the following day and I took public transport to get there. I despise public transport! I hate it because there will always be that one person who don’t respect your personal space. That one person who can’t shut the fuck up and feel the urge to engage all those around them in some mindless discourse about mind numbingly boring dribble. That person will then always end up sitting next to me! I am like a magnet for Chatty Kathy’s and Stinky Steven’s and my two return train trips didn’t disprove this theory.

Rule number one, when I’m suffering from nicotine withdrawals, have an eye infection, am tired and I ignore you, do not persist in flirting with me on a train. Rule number two, if I sit looking out of the window, not answer your questions and pretend like you are not there, stop talking. And the most important rule for public transport, rule number three, if you are not wearing any shoes and I ignored you on the train, do not ask me for a cigarette, because I will be tempted to kill you, you dirty barefooted tree hugging GOP 17 protesting asshole!

During the past few days I often wondered if there were any anonymous support groups like the AA for smokers. Groups where I would be required to stand up in front of strangers and say “Hi, my name is Pierre and I am a recovering nicotine addict”, to which they would acceptingly respond and be followed by some sad personal stories about how smoking destroyed our marriages, lives and careers. Wondered if there were 12 step programs, “sobriety badges” or sponsors you could phone when the urge hits you to light up a fag?

Fortunately I found none, and it’s probably best as I hate attending meetings anyway, hate having to listen to people tell sad stories and feeling sorry for themselves. Besides, if I had to attend stupid Nicotine Addicts Anonymous meetings it would have seriously impacted on my Facebook, Blogging and Twitter time. But had there been meetings like that I am sure hubby would have delicately urged me to attend them. He’s been such a trooper through all of this. Knowing just when to ignore my tantrums, when to avoid me and how to decode my grunts into meaningful sentences.

Just the other day, while I was cooking dinner hubby turned to me and said “Honey, I know you’re not feeling well, but please don’t throw things around in the kitchen”. To which I rudely responded “I. Am NOT. Throwing. THINGS!!!” Lo and behold, five minutes later I caught myself out indeed manhandling and throwing around utensils, pots and spices. It must have taken real guts for hubby to utter those words to me with several sharp butcher knives just inches away from me at the time.

The worst thing during this last eleven days since I quit smoking is the dreams. I dream that I am smoking and it’s absolutely terrifying! I dream that I am smoking and I know that I shouldn’t, I want to put the cigarette down but I can’t. This usually happens between 2:25am and 4:45am in the morning, and it usually causes me to wake up in a panic and a cold sweat. Even in my dreams cigarettes haunts me! It’s not fun but luckily the dreams are growing fewer and further in between.

Quitting smoking is not easy. On a daily basis I have to resist the urge to have Naomi Campbell moments and throw people with stuff, assault people with my phone or ram my car into taxis that cut me off. But, every day it’s also getting better. Every day the cravings are become less intense, fewer and my mood is slowly returning to normal. I managed to quit smoking just over a week ago and I am damn proud of myself because of it! Screw you tobacco companies; I am your bitch no more!

Till next time.

Quitting Fags. For real this time.

I have been a smoker for 17 years and I am really good at it. Sure I have tried to breakup up with my favorite fags on several occasions, but every time I tried I ended up going back to them. Whether it is the nicotine, the habit or the combination of both, I have never managed to make a clean break of it. So imagine my surprise when colleagues at work started quitting in droves. One by one they gave up cigarettes seemingly without effort and/or the associated melodrama. Naturally, I was intrigued and discovered that they were all on this new but very controversial prescription drug called "Champix". So I had to try it.

Now, everyone that has ever tried to quit smoking will tell you. It. Is. Hell. I have done the patches, mouth spray, chewing gum, Zyban and the electric cigarette. None of which worked. I have also once tried going cold turkey and let’s just say it was no fucking fun fair and I almost ended up committing a triple homicide. So when this new drug crossed my path and appeared to help folks quit without any psychotic cravings, you know the “you need nicotine so bad you’re considering licking a dirty ashtray” kind of cravings, I was curious. Would this new drug work for me? So I did some research.

As many of you know, I am Google’s bitch and Facebook’s slut. So it was only normal for me to utilize them both to learn more about this pill called Champix. What I discovered freaked me out. The pill has a list of side effects longer than the New Testament which includes, but is not limited to, death and/or suicide! Did I really want to take something that could give me migraines, blood in my poo, flatulence, gingivitis, rashes, nightmares, mood swings and/or muscle pains, just to mention but a few? After weighing up getting cancer versus farting blood, I called my doctor fully expecting him to be thrilled that I wanted to stop smoking. However, his reaction was rather shocking.

“Look I am glad that you want to give up smoking and it is about time that you did, but I am not prescribing that pill for you!” and Yes, “No I won’t” was his final answer! Apparently he spoke to a number of specialists who all agreed that giving Champix to patients was too great a risk. So, I just went to another doctor who would prescribe it for me, because I am responsible adult like that.  I started taking the drug and by week two the side effects started. At first they were mild but soon they grew more prominent and less easy to ignore. But the worst was yet to come. As I entered week four I peaked on several items as listed on the medication insert pamphlet, which I now decided to read with comprehension, and it wasn’t fun anymore. NOT. Fun. At. All!

Normally I am a moody person but on Champix I am an irrational borderline psychotic bitch! What makes it worse is the fact that when I am being an irrational bitch I am fully self-aware, know I am being irrational and a bitch and still I just can’t stop myself. Combine this with being bloated and looking like I am four months pregnant, throw in a headache and mix well with nausea and you have a Champix recipe for what can only be described as a clusterfuck of side effects that actually saw me taking one day’s sick leave from work. However, side effects aside, by week four I managed to cut my smoking down by half. But I still was smoking. Smoking but not enjoying it. Smoking out of stubbornness. Smoking out of habit.

They say that when you are on this pill you should set a deadline for yourself for when you plan to quit - quit smoking that is NOT the pill! This was something I wanted to and chose to ignore. Setting a deadline to quit made me sad, miserable and for some bizarre reason I wanted to believe that the pill will help me give up smoking naturally. So one morning after I dreamed that I had to drive through the Gaza Strip and Hamas and some Somali pirates wanted to kidnap me for ransom, I had an epiphany. I came to the realization that if I really wanted to quit smoking I would need to put some effort into it myself as well. And then I wondered what Somali pirates were doing in Israel, why they were working with Hamas and why the hell they were after me!

At week five I started to think that maybe I am in the percentile of people for which this new “miracle pill” doesn’t work. Look, I don’t mind being a statistic as long as I am at the right side of it, and being competitive by nature falling into the “failure” percentile pissed me off and was going to have none of it. I will quit smoking and this Goddamn pill will help me even if it kills me! So I have set a deadline to stop. I have bought my last carton of cigarettes last week (yes I do smoke that much) and it should be finished within the next few days. May God have mercy on all the souls who cross my path. When I smoke my last Peter Stuyvesant it will be a sad day. Saying goodbye to a friend of 17 years who have always been there for me will not be easy. Not easy at all…

Yes, my love affair with Peter Stuyvesant, Marlboro and Camel have almost come to an end. They have been there for me when I was stressed, sad, happy, bored and in need for some after action satisfaction. For 17 years their odor have permeated the air in my house, my car, clung to my hair, clothes and hands. After 17 years it is time to bid them adieu. I must admit, I am a little scared as I am not sure what to expect when I put out that last cigarette, but one thing I am certain off is that in 10 years from now I’d be happy I did.

Till next time.

I May Quit Fags!

It’s official. Smokers have become social outcasts. We are not allowed to enjoy our fags in the privacy of our own offices, while drinking a beer in the pub, while dinning out or even in certain night clubs. We are being kicked to the curb and I, for one, am taking it personally! Where are the days of the Marlboro Man, the advertisements of young people jet skiing while lighting up and the days when our packets of cigarettes didn’t have hateful and threatening messages on them? These days smokers are confined to designated areas on pavements outside our office buildings, huddled together under umbrellas in the soaking rain, cramped together in glass boxes at airports or shunned 20 foot away from the nearest entrances or exist. Smokers are being ousted from all places that are fun and this made me to wonder – isn’t it time for me to try and quit smoking again.

Having been a smoker for the last 15 years, I can honestly say I have been enjoying sucking on my fags. Yes, I know it’s not the healthiest habit in the world and that’s why I don’t smoke crack or heroin. During the last 15 years I did try to quit on more than one occasion and all attempts failed, some more miserably than others. I tried the sprays (tasted like shit and tested my gag reflex and not in a good way), the patches and gum (it's fine until you reach the lowest doses), the medication (gave me insomnia and eventually a rash) and the most torturous techniques – cold turkey (I only lasted a week, almost killed someone and don’t recommend it). 15 years and four failed attempts at quitting later and I am still happily sucking away on my fags.

Why is it so damn difficult to quit? The obvious reason is the fact that nicotine is highly addictive and any attempts at quitting will inevitably lead to cravings and withdrawals. Carving and withdrawals then leads to bitchiness, bitchiness to rudeness and rudeness to unpleasantness; and in my case, a nice psychotic combination of all the above. You see, some people don’t turn into monsters when they attempt quitting smoking, I, on the other hand, do. I turn into a raving mad bitch. If I am not on the verge of screaming at someone I am on the verge of breaking into a self pitying crying mess. My emotions during the first few days usually would be limited to irritated, angry, sad and don’t fuck with me. Over a couple weeks (if I make it that long) I would slowly mellow out with the exception of a few unexpected visits from the craving bitch monster.

They say that you should never attempt to quit smoking if you are not ready. For some smokers not even emphysema is enough to persuade them to quit. My husband’s grandmother, for example, happily puffed away alternating a cigarette and her oxygen mask for many years before she eventually passed away. So how do you know when you are ready to stop smoking? Is there some light bulb moment when Oprah Winfrey visits you in your dreams and says “It’s time for you to stop smoking! Also don’t text and drive because both can potentially kill you!” If Oprah can’t convince you the government and their public health campaigns sure as hell is trying to give it their best shot. No more nice dreams courtesy of Harpo Productions bring on the state funded nightmares!

The newest tool in the world’s fight against smokers is the warning labels on our cigarette packets. DANGER: SMOKING CAUSES CANCER. I know it does but so does air pollution, some chemicals in our food and water. Does this now also mean I should stop breathing, eating and drinking water? Seriously, I am not making fun of the dangers of smoking, but realistically do people really believe these warning labels are deterring any smokers. I think not! If they are anything like me they will just opt to by the “PREGNANT? BREAST FEEDING? YOUR SMOKING CAN HARM YOUR BABY” packets, because I am neither pregnant nor breastfeeding and don’t have a baby and it makes me feel so much better smoking from those packets – away from babies off course.

Another fad in the fight against the puffers is the new electric cigarettes. They are said to have all the benefits of smoking real cigarettes but none of the bad cancer causing toxins. Many of my friends have bought these phallic looking nicotine dispensers during the last year. The first ones looked more like small dildos than cigarettes. However the newer ones more closely resemble real cigarettes and looks less like sucking on a sex toy. For some these new gadgets seem to be working, even though none of them have actually completely stopped smoking but at least they are smoking far less. For others these phallic fag substitutes soon became redundant and were retired to the back of the closet with all their other “it seemed like a good idea at the time” items. Supposedly another added benefit of the electric cigarettes is that you can smoke them everywhere, or so they say. People can’t smell them so they can’t complain but I am sure it’s just a matter of time before the Anti-Smoking Nazis ban them too.

I am still undetermined whether I am ready and willing to completely give up smoking. Deep down I know I really should and if for nothing else for my health and that of my passive smoking husband. After 15 years of slowly poisoning my body with the fags I love so much I am willing to take the first step. I shall get myself one of those dildo nicotine dispensers and see how it goes. Who knows, the electronic cigarette may just be my unique stop smoking miracle cure. Only time will tell, now let me go suck on my dildo.

Till next time.

Bill Hicks on Tennessee Waffle House & Non-Smokers