I smoke cigarettes: A discussion about addiction

The other night I was biting my nails at a party. I was trying not to step outside and bum a cigarette. It had been five days since I last smoked. I had felt proud of myself earlier in the day, but the familiar feeling of intense craving welled up the second I stepped into the dimly lit apartment. Now, one hour into the soiree, sipping my second rum and coke, I was exhausted with small talk. I didn’t want to discuss my major, my post-graduation plans or my summer internship. I grimaced at the faux-floral stink of the scented candle in the corner, downed my cocktail and stepped onto the balcony. I saw a portly guy with a scraggly brown beard puffing away at a cigarette. I tried to play it cool.

“Hey, can I have a cigarette?”

He rolled his eyes at me and produced a crumpled pack of Newport cigarettes from his coat pocket. I hate menthols. He handed me a slim white stick and said nothing. When I asked for a light he sighed and handed me a cold silver Zippo lighter. I stood on the other side of the balcony as I smoked. He put out a half-finished cigarette and stepped inside. I was alone and smoking. Sweet relief.

I know smoking cigarettes is a bad habit. I know that this activity exposes my lungs to tar and formaldehyde and countless other deadly chemicals. I know since I started smoking I have lost much of my stamina and urge for cardiovascular exercise. I have seen the commercials of wrinkled, smoking veterans on television with tubes drilled into their throats, and I have heard their robotic, phlegmatic voices. Still, I smoke.

It started when I was 16 years old. My taste in film and music glorified the nasty habit. Quentin Tarantino, my favorite director, wrote characters who smoked heavily. “Reservoir Dogs” and “Pulp Fiction” are stylized portrayals of a world where everybody smoked, and they looked cool doing it. It wasn’t a dirty habit, but a normal activity, like drinking beer or coffee.

Johnny Hobo, a folk-punk musician, wrote songs about vagabond living, self-destructive habits — all in this untrained, gravelly voice. His lyrics centered around binge drinking, drug trafficking, homelessness, godlessness and chain-smoking. I thought this was all very cool.

My friends and I would hang around a coffee shop in downtown Fort Lauderdale on weekends, sitting on the outdoor balcony smoking. We would loiter in dingy parking lots smoking instead of doing things that productive, healthy people my age did. I didn’t play or watch sports. I didn’t read books. I didn’t get a job. I didn’t go to the beach. I smoked cigarettes and listened to punk music.

I do take solace in the fact that most people are addicted to something. It is socially acceptable to rely on a daily dose of pharmaceuticals to treat mental illness. Caffeine addiction is casual — most working Americans rely on their local Starbucks or Dunkin’ Donuts for a quick fix of chemical support before work. We are encouraged to drink alcohol often and even drive afterward, so long as we are below a legal limit. We all have our crutches. I just wish I didn’t have to worry about mine giving me cancer.

I kick myself every day for picking up the habit of smoking cigarettes when I was so young, because now I have a full-on nicotine addiction that I have never kicked. Sometimes I tell myself that I am still young, that I have my entire life to quit smoking. Other times I try not to think about it. I simply embrace apathy and recklessness. I smoke and I enjoy it. Everyone is addicted to something, right? Hopefully one day I will quit smoking for real and replace it with a less damaging habit. Until then I will, in the words of Johnny Hobo, “chain-smoke my way through the gaps in between my aspirations and my apathy.”

Jeremy Haas is a UF English junior. His column appears on Wednesdays.