Dear Cigarette: I Want A Divorce

Dear Cigarette,

Fuck you.

Fuck our unholy matrimony.

Fuck you for taking my soul more than a decade ago, the first time I inhaled your decadent taste which officially ended my single life. Our love affair was supposed to be brief, just a summer fling; I made that promise to myself back in the summer of 2001. But love is blind. Fuck you for making me a slave, constantly searching for you at all times of the day and night, panicking when I don’t have you for an hour. Fuck the emotional and physical dependency; this is a one-sided abusive relationship and I’m the victim while you’re the abuser. Fuck you and your charm, that certain “je ne sais quoi” chic that emits from your existence in my hand. Fuck all the people who make you appear dazzling, sexy, and mysterious. Fuck rock’n’roll, cowboys, grunge, black and white photography, trends, and the alternative. Fuck the money I spend to feed you and keep you alive. Fuck nightclubs, bars, and the millions of people who are in awe with your greatness the way I am.

Fuck potential cancer, blood clots, bad breath, deflated lungs. Fuck tarter, plaque, dry mouth, flaky skin, enlarged pores, sore throats and phlegm. Fuck the pain in my mouth from over-brushing. Fuck waking up congested, puffy, nosebleeds, tired, and filtered with a yellow tinge. Fuck the stairs and not being able to climb home when the elevator’s busted. Fuck my adolescent dreams of being an Olympic swimmer – the water feels so thick; every stroke turns my face tomato-red and my stamina sinks with every grappling movement.

Fuck the panic attacks, the anxiety, the feeling of dread when you’re not by my side. Fuck travelling, there’s a “No Smoking” sign. Fuck desperation. Fuck the need to inhale your calming drugs when my emotions fluctuate. Fuck happiness, sadness, anger, guilt, stress and excitement. Fuck the art you produce and the images that seem to dance from the smoke you expel.

Fuck the high school corner where I’d secretly indulge in our affair, the alleyways, standing 30 feet away from the door. Fuck blizzards, snow-squalls, winds, torrential rains, humidity; I’ll do everything and anything to be with you. Fuck leftover tobacco flakes and the ashes which beautifully manage to escape that ornate crystal ashtray, littering my home with a layer of dust. Fuck alcohol and the way it makes me love you even more. Fuck coffee, fuck food. Fuck my appetite and those useless taste-buds you love to mute. Fuck perfume, scented candles, hand sanitizers, dry shampoo; you’re always there no matter how much I try and mask our relationship.

Fuck the efforts I undertake to keep our marriage a secret from the people who scorn you – those nonbelievers are becoming ever-so-present. Fuck defending how amazing you are when I’m being grilled by those who have never felt the addictive power of your love. Fuck the flow of ease you send through my body when I make you sparkle. Fuck the sadness I get when I turn you off. Fuck death, life, well-being. Fuck it all.

But most importantly, fuck this. I want a fucking divorce. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

image – Shutterstock

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