Mmm, smoking.
... working graveyard at a small convenience store in northeast Portland. I worked alone, and of the five employees of the store, I was the only one who didn't smoke. There was an ashtray at the desk in the back room where we sat when the store was empty so we could rest our sore feet. Several cigarette butts and a couple of half-smoked cigarettes lie in the bottom of the ashtray. I was curious what it tasted like, what nicotine would make me feel like, so I picked up a halfie and lit up. Several tries later, I had it down. I was smoking, and it made me feel more adult, more sophisticated, and I was sure that a cigarette nestled between my fore and middle fingers made me cool. After all, most of my friends smoked, so it couldn't be all that bad, right? A few years later, I found myself smoking a pack a day. My apartment and clothes had the permanent stench of smoke. I could not get through the day without smoking; I bummed cigarettes from whoever, raided my closets and drawers for enough pennies for the cheapest pack of smokes. Food was given up so I had enough money for my addiction. Because that is what it was – when you give up the things necessary for survival just so you can have cigarettes, you are truly a slave to the nicotine. And I found myself puffing on three different medicated inhalers several times a day in order to keep my asthma controlled so I could continue to smoke. The more smoking I did, the more medicin...