Nine years is a long time for somebody to be maintaining a deathly bad habit. I started smoking in the year 2000 (mostly as a big Fuck You to them dime a dozen doomsayers. The end of the world didn't happen, so I might as well try smoking), and if I keep this up, then I might as well be exhaling red smoke in another year or so. I'm not a heavy smoker, but I keep a schedule. My recommended daily allowance of ten sticks (tops, Marlboro Lights) gets consumed in very specific intervals and moods. There's a stick first thing in the morning; I'm holding a cigarette before I do my toothbrush. And then there's another stick on my way to work. Three hours go by and its another stick on my first coffee break, two during lunch, and then one more before going home. Sometimes I take three sticks during lunch because an hour allows us a lot of time to scandalize, and nothing gets you smoking faster when its over the latest office gossip. I scatter two more sticks before I call it a day, and then it's the same song and dance all over the next morning.
With that being said, I can halfheartedly say that I don't feel my lungs collapsing in bloody papier mache lumps the size of closed fists, but the idea of exhaling red smoke has been nagging itself into recent memory any opportunity it gets.
My friends are either smokers, or they don't mind the secondhand smoke. I prefer the latter mostly because they never bum for a cigarette.
I love him in spite of his shallow skin deep tendencies. And, as expected, I'm willing to share some of his stresses if only he weren't such a drama queen about everything. I don't usually mind because, fuck it, I'm in love.
I've learned to realize that your siblings, not your childhood friends, are your best reminders of your own personal history. They're like Post Its that share your last name. This is mostly because, try as you might, there's just no letting go of the family you were born with.