Holy Smokes: Part 2

READ Part 1 of Holy Smokes here.

Fuck you Lent, you’re so freakin’ long even Christians can’t make it the whole way.

Officially, Lent consists of 46 days, but Sundays don’t count and are considered “mini-Easter”s (Cheers Wikipedia for that brilliant term) so it’s only really 40 days long. Finding out I could smoke on the holy day and say ‘it’s religious’ was the devil’s temptation. But, not being a Christian, I’m going to keep my original plan: no smoking from Ash Wednesday to Easter Saturday inclusive. 46 lots of 24 hours. A walk in the park.

All of the major signs of withdrawal have passed, just about. I could almost be mistaken for a functioning member of society, if I only I’d stop biting my nails like a crack addict. This dive into cannibalism is twinned with sporadic bouts of eating, although I‘m learning to accept my new life as chubby, and am prepared for ‘looks like a whale’ to become my new identifier.

Increasing olfactory performance means I realise how awful my usual haunts smell. Clubs, pubs, bars, and my socks; they all stink. Other common traits include my preference for being in them and not smelling them. In conclusion; quitting smoking makes you fat and smelly.

Since I’m saving money, I’ve decided to become cultural, investing in New Scientist and Wired subscriptions. I’ve even considered Esquire, Maxim, and Front. The last is still unashamedly about boobs, but boobs with tattoos, which is better than boobs with artistic bits of cloth over them.

Anyway, the savings haven’t been dramatic. The first few weeks of profit gambled away on the Boat Race (GDBO) and the rest on drowning my sorrows. Roll-ups tend to keep the damage on my liquidity at a minimum.

Proposed benefits to my health have been greatly overstated, because the majority will hit in my 40s: smoker health qualms are last on my list, right after watering my cactus and laundry and I think too much salt and high cholesterol are going to get me first. Cigarettes or crisps, now that’s the people’s choice.

My semen is supposed to taste better, but no change has been noted.

I still stare widely with a wind tunnel above my jaw at any passing lit cigarette (second hand smoke didn’t count, dift this way tendrils of joy!). I’m still addicted. Every time history repeats, it’s noticeable the cigarettes have been edited out. If I had lit-up for particular events, a re-crave set in – a deja-smoke. I remember how the last time I went to the pub/walked for more than half an hour/had a wank was significantly improved by a nicotine supplement.

I know that after so long without a cigarette I have become delusional, as I’ve had thoughts of keeping this up, or partially. I could metamorphose into the vampire, ‘social-smoker’, and never have to buy cigarettes again. I could use them as rewards for revision, or budget them like a rare commodity. In reality, once my old, addicted neural pathways re-light (pun intended) the old habits will return.

Apprehension is setting in for the golden cigarette lit at 12.01am. It’s going to be private, I will probably faint from an intense rush of nicotine (can’t wait) then cough up a new lung (embarrassing). Best kept to myself.

I will be in touch again soon to tell you how it goes, assuming I still want a cigarette by then.

Illustrations by Amy Jeffs