I hate myself right now, because during my Saturday night drunken binge, I managed to freeload about a million cigarettes from my smoker friends.
Call it what you want: denial, self loathing, delusion. I’ve never used the label “smoker” to describe my habit, because I don’t normally go out and buy cigarettes. My occasional downward spirals usually begin with me starting out at a party, bored. I bum a cig off a friend. I smoke it. I start drinking. I bum more cigs off people – even complete strangers – and smoke them. Smoking’s a disgusting habit, I know this. Couple that with the fact that I’m drunk and begging. Strangers. For cigarettes.
That’s how I was Saturday night. Sunday morning, the self-flagellation process began: My day started with a nasty-ass taste in my mouth, my hair stank like smoke, my teeth a nasty yellow. I also found two huge, unpopped blisters on my pinky toes from my too-cute-yet-uncomfy BCBG slides. The two months since my last cig-binge had been squeaky clean livin’: I was kicking ass with the cardio, I was feeling my lung capacity swell. Sunday morning, I felt like Hagzilla.
At that same party, an acquaintance of mine, who is going through a 12-step program to stop drinking, tightly clutched his six-month sobriety chip. He made it through the night without giving into his demons. Why couldn’t I do the same?
Then today, during my dad’s follow-up appointment, we learned that he needs to go back into the hospital to be re-treated. And here I am, playing Russian Roulette with my lungs, when the man I love so dearly is about to have another procedure done that can save his life.
I need to try harder.