My accidental last cigarette happened at 8:45pm yesterday, outside a 7-11 whose sign had given up on life even before I had given up on nicotine. It was just supposed to be a placeholder smoke—a nicotine appetizer before the main course. You see, I had choreographed this whole dramatic ‘final cigarette’ scene in my head: midnight strike, philosophical exhale, perhaps a gentle breeze to carry away both smoke and my addiction. Very cinematic. Oscar-worthy, really.
But the universe had other plans for my grand farewell to nicotine.
When I stumbled back to our AirBnB, my daughters were collapsing into bed, their little bodies exhausted from a day of whatever chaos The Lost World of Tambun offers (I assume it involves screaming, sugar, and at least one overpriced souvenir).
There I was, trying to be intellectual, reading ‘The Emperor of All Maladies’– which, in a perfect twist of irony– was explaining exactly how cigarettes were turning my lungs into something resembling two sad, overcooked mushrooms.
Before I could execute my midnight smoke ritual, I was lulled to sleep by the gentle soundtrack of my children’s breathing
I woke up feeling surprisingly okay, like maybe my body hadn’t gotten the memo that we were supposed to be craving cigarettes. But as the day progresses, my brain is increasingly sending frantic telegrams to my nervous system: ‘SEND NICOTINE IMMEDIATELY STOP SITUATION DIRE STOP.’
Can’t wait to just get home and… what? Smoke? Not smoke? Chew aggressively on pencils? The withdrawal adventure continues…”