Dear Cigarettes

Dear Cigarettes,

It's been seven long months and although I miss you, I wanted to write to let you know that you're a motherfucker and we're through. Today I sat under the umbrella at the table on the backporch, or as I've always thought of it, our place. I brought a magazine with me as a distraction and you know what, I didn't need it. I can sit quietly with or without a cup of coffee and not want you back in my life.

You'll always be in my thoughts. When I'm in a bar or at a party, wherever anyone is lighting up, so carefree. When I've had a fight with my husband or had my feelings hurt and am dragging down. When I'm feeling nervous or worried. How is it that you were able to tap into whatever I needed at the moment and give it to me? How were you able to make me relax, aren't you a stimulant? You're such a mother fucker.

For years I was a slave to you and what did you give me in return? You stunk up my house, my clothes and my hair. You gave me a miserable wheeze when I excerted any type of activity. You have aged me beyond my years and given me wrinkles around my mouth I wouldn't otherwise have. You ruined my tastebuds and sense of smell and gave me the worst breath imaginable so that my husband wouldn't come near me. Oh, AND you cost me over $25 a week. You mother fucker.

Anyway, I've thrown away all traces of you that were in my house including my favorite pink lighter that somehow had lasted forever. All gone. I smell fantastic, breath and hair fresh as a breeze, my husband says so. I am exercising an hour a day (with no wheeze). My tastebuds are coming back and the house, although still dirty no longer smells like cigarette smoke and cabbage. It just smells like cabbage now, but I'm working on that.

So don't think you can come back here anytime you want. You're out for good buddy. Don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out. Sayonara, Riva Deerchee. Mother Fucker I don't need you anymore.

Sincerely,

Me