The Quitter has Quit

Since Sunday at about 5 or 5:30 p.m., I've been a nonsmoker.

I've been sick. Some kind of lung/sinus kind of thing for more than a week now. Of course, I had continued smoking throughout the coughing fits and the three days off work. Just not as much. That's considered conscientious, right?

Wrong.

Sunday at about 5 p.m., I was sitting on my front porch smoking the second-to-the-last cigarette in my last pack of Marlboro Light 100s (box). It tasted like shit. My mouth tasted like shit. I started to feel queasy. I thought, "This will be my last cigarette."

But what about the lucky? I couldn't just abandon the fifth cigarette in the first row that I so diligently turned on its head pack after pack after godforsaken pack. On second thought, yes I could. I decided breaking my last lucky in my last pack of smokes was the luckiest thing I could ever do. I tossed it in the trash, put out my mostly-smoked cigarette and proceeded to vomit for about 10 minutes in the bathroom sink. Lovely feeling as snot shot out of every hole in my head and barely-chewed food from my recent dinner spewed from my stomach out of my mouth.

I haven't smoked since. I know it's only been 1.5 days or so, but I don't even want one. The only time I miss it is when I get in my car. Smoking is a necessity, after all, when one is behind the wheel.