"I am the wisest man alive, for I know one thing, and that is that I know nothing." ~Socrates

All growing up, I hated cigarettes. HATED them, no joke. If anyone was smoking in a room, I'd leave because I couldn't stand the smell.
In high school, we had this teacher who smoked like a chimney and had this terrible habit of coming to your desk and leaning into your face to explain something. I hated it, his breath was extremely rank and, I swear, sometimes it made me want to vomit.
So, how in the hell did I become a smoker?
I was freshly 18 and my friend Jason ZumBrunnen wanted me to buy him some Swisher Sweet cigars. I agreed, on the condition that Lisa and I would get one apiece as reward for breaking the law (buying for minors and all). I have never been so high in my life as that night, I'm sure that not even marajuana could get me that high. We stood at the fence of the local pool and watched the water for an hour, because it felt like we were on a boat. See? We were so high from the stogies that we were hallucinating.
Of course, we wanted to recreate that feeling everyday...and, bingo, we get addicted.
Now, 10 years later, I want to quit. I did before...lasted 6 months. I'm going to try again and, hopefully, surpass that mark. I've been telling myself with every cigarette I light today "Enjoy it while it lasts, I'm not buying another pack, enjoy it while it lasts, I'm not buying another pack...."
Fingers crossed, I don't allow my mind to convince me to buy a pack tomorrow. It's such a battle. Truly, when you try to quit the thought of a cigarette crosses your mind constantly...every few minutes. It's unbearable.
Please let me succeed, I say to myself. Please. Pretty please with a cherry on top.