Dear Chuck Norris, I Quit! Part VIII: 180 over 60

originally posted January 25, 2010

Dear Mr. Norris,

Smoking disgusts me. Completely. The very thought of smoking actually makes me nauseous. And watching someone smoke, even from afar, is enough to make me wretch. Even if it’s on television. Even if someone is just holding a cigarette. And, God forbid, someone lights up around me. You would think they pointed a gun in my face the way I take of running. And the smell! Sweet Jesus, the SMELL, the dank yellowing cloak of eventual death that “they” drag around. Blech! How can they stand it?

Ugh.

Does that mean I’m one of those ex-smoker snobs now?

You know the ones I’m talking about: the newly enlightened, recently redeemed smokers who seemingly can’t wait to tell you just how awful smoking is for you (as if you didn’t already know), those plucky defenders of your freedom to breathe freely, striking at your bad habit with morbid statistics gleaned from pamphlets they don’t understand with numbers that don't bear repeating. The ones who’s entire lives seem to be framed around the fact that they DON’T SMOKE (and neither should you – nasty habit. Here, read this pamphlet), ugh, and my favorite, the ones who cough like precious ailing mice the moment someone lights up within 20 yards of them.

“Do I even have to mention what it would do for your health, or your kids' health if you quit? And just THINK of what it would do for your pocketbook. How much money would you save each year if you quit smoking right now? Just think of it - thousands and thousands of dollars left over for healthy life-enriching activities. I won’t even mention the health benefits. Of course it's your life. Enjoy it however you want. But…”


Am I one of "them" now?

It’s been about 180 days since my last cigarette. That’s about 6 months. And, in terms of my past attempts to quit, this is the second longest I’ve lasted.

The last time I quit, I last 18 months before I gave in. I told myself that I could get away with smoking occasionally, that one cigarette wouldn’t hurt. And of course I was wrong. Within a week, I was back to smoking a pack or more a day. The speed and relative ease at which the habit returned was frightening. I’ve learned my lesson. No more forays back to the dark side.

And I can say that with confidence. The very idea of smoking repulses me. Which, in it’s own way, is sort of interesting given that I can specifically remember enjoying smoking. A lot. And I’m certain that just now I couldn’t be any further removed from that feeling of enjoyment. Which I guess is a good thing.

It also occurs to me, Chuck, that I’ll be 30th in about 60 days. Or, as one person put it, I have 60 days left of my twenties. Or two months left of my twenty-something. Or who cares, really. I only hope my birthday comes with pie and presents.

Speaking of pie, the weight issue has begun evening itself out. I’ve leveled off just now, partly because it was bound to happen and partly because I’m a bit more active now. Sure, I still get winded much more easily than I should but I’ll deal with that in a little while – one thing at a time, eh, Mr. Norris?

Now before you say anything, I swear, I haven’t become complacent. I haven’t adopted this anti-smoking attitude as a sort of cardboard defense against a relapse. I really do detest smoking. Straight up. Nonetheless, I put no faith in my hate, relying instead on the day-by-day vigilance that got me here: six months without a cigarette.

I’m not ignorant of the fact that about 90% of smokers who attempt to quit end up relapsing within the first year. That’s most of them, Chuck. And you better believe that every day I ask myself if I’m among most of them.

The cold hard reality of all this is that, as strong and sure as I feel right now, I am statistically bound to fail. According to the numbers, this is a fools errand that’ll only end in tears. According to the numbers, I won’t succeed.

And, oddly enough, I’m liking those odds.

I’ve spent a good chunk of my life beating the numbers and defying the odds. It’s sort of my thing. And, though I am up against one hell of a monster just now, that little voice inside me is still saying “One more day, Drew. One more day”.

So I’ll make a deal with myself. I’ll throw myself a party when I make it to the one year mark. That’ll be July 31, 2010. It’s a Saturday, Chuck. I’m sure you have plans for that day but you’re invited to come along if you like. Hell, I’ll even buy the first round.

180 days smoke free. 60 days out from 30-something. I gotta say I’m feeling pretty good right about now, Chuck.

Pretty good indeed.

Your #1 Fan,

Drew

Dear Chuck Norris, I Quit! Part VII: The Weighting Game

originally posted November 29, 2009

Dear Mr. Norris,

If I’m not mistaken, today is my 121st day smoke free. That's 2904 hours.

174,240 minutes.

10,454,400 seconds.

Roughly 4 months if you're a big picture sort of guy.

So yippe. Or something.

I don’t feel MORE smoke free today than I did on day one or day fourteen or yesterday for that matter. Still, it’s nice to have made it out this far. Very nice, even.

As life’s stresses creep in, so does a desire to start smoking again- I haven’t, by the way. In fact, I haven’t even physically touched a cigarette since that last one that I stubbed out behind the garage some months ago. But I still find myself handling my pen like a burning cigarette from time to time. And I still occasionally feel pangs of something like jealously or longing when I see someone light up. It’s a dim phantom of a feeling but it’s there all the same.

In some ways, being this far out from the poisoned shore worries me. I don’t want to get comfortable out here, especially not so comfortable as to set myself up for a relapse. But I also don’t want to spend all my time bracing for a relapse. I just kinda want to be done with the whole mess altogether.

And I’m not sure that’s going to happen. At least, not any time in the foreseeable future.

Nonetheless, I remain focused on the positive and look forward to remaining healthy and smoke-free.

I found this “Smoking Recovery Timetable” online earlier today. Check it out. I read it from time to time and mark my progress. It gives me tangible somethings to look forward to.

In the meantime, my body has been giving me not-so-subtle clues that I need to get my weight under control. The first few months were hilarious and interesting but now, I'm edging ever closer to having gained 50 pounds.

50 pounds – have mercy.

I'm eating much more than when I was smoking and I'm not nearly as mobile. The pounds crept in on cat's feet and wrapped themselves around my middle. I didn't even notice how out of shape I was until I found myself completely winded after climbing a flight of stairs – stairs that I have easily galloped up and down before.

So far, even though I've put on a substantial amount of weight (average gain of about 2.5 pounds a week), it hardly shows at all. I'd imagine that I'd have taken action a bit sooner if it had.

Meh.

I keep telling myself that this is all better than smoking. And, though I've never tried before, I can't imagine that losing weight will be remotely as hard as quitting smoking. At least not for me. To my mind, I just need to take a couple more walks, maybe even hit the gym a bit, and I'll be back to normal. Or something close to normal. Hell, to be honest, I'd be happy just not gaining any more weight for right now. And I think that's a realistic goal.

I'm not going to stop eating pie. Or bacon cheeseburgers. Or chocolate anything. I'll just start paying the physical price up front.

In the meantime, pudgy or no, I remain smoke free. Here's to another 121 days, Chuck.

Your (ever so slightly pudgy) #1 fan,

Drew

Dear Chuck Norris, I Quit, Part VI: Flashback

Dear Mr. Norris,

I nearly had a setback a few days ago.

I was hanging out at my bar when the urge to smoke hit me. Hard. So hard, in fact, that I momentarily reasoned that having a smoke - just one – wouldn't be so bad. I looked around at the ash trays situated on the tables about me on the patio eyeing the bevy of half-smoked cigarettes with a lusty eye. In fact, truth be told, Chuck, I was checking my pockets for a lighter before I came to myself.

I used to think that the more days that I managed to put behind me, the better insulated I'd be against the naughty nicotine. Now I realize that, despite all of my investments (physical, emotional, and otherwise), I am just as vulnerable as I was on day one.

And that's depressing. Sort of.

In reality, I'm sure that well beyond the worst of the cravings and suffering and so forth. But this last episode was unexpected – unexpected and more than a little scary, even.

I still have dreams about smoking every now and again. I wake up wracked with guilt and self-loathing, feeling disgusted and weak and all manner of horrible things. And then it occurs to me that it was all just a dream and I sigh with relief. And then I wonder how in the world I was able to make it this far without smoking a cigarette. And then I wonder how much farther I can make it before I finally break down or screw up or give in. And then I feel the sinking hopeless quicksand pull of inevitable failure.

And I think to myself, just for a moment, that it would be better if I failed with my eyes open, that I should just quit and start smoking now, that all of this isn't really worth all the hassle and the struggle and the worry and such and that I really don't want to fight any more and that, hell, smoking isn't really all THAT bad for you and that I could smoke occasionally and get away with it as a sort of compromise.

And then I remember chocolate. And breathing. And not smelling like a chimney. I remember how much I don't like poisoning myself. I remember how much I like money – especially when it's in my pockets and not wasted on cigarettes.

I remember that, even though this is impossible, here I am nearly 100 days into my journey.

Not too bad for a quitter eh, Chuck?

Your #1 Fan,

Drew

Dear Chuck Norris, I Quit!: Part V: Keeping Up with the Joneses

originally posted October 9, 2009

Author's Note: "Jones", a slang term meaning "strong desire" or "addiction", originally came from the heroin addicts who hung out in Manhattan's Great Jones Alley.The use of "Jones" in this way dates back to at least 1968. Prior to that it was slang for "heroin," which helps explain how it became an analog to words associated with intense cravings.


On July 31, 2009 (or thereabouts) I smoked my last cigarette. If I had to sum up the feeling of that last smoke in a single word, I'd pick "desperate". Even as I sucked the smoke deep into my chest delivering the satisfying corruption to my uttermost parts, it didn't much feel like any of the other smokes I'd ever had. It felt final and, therefore, desperate - desperate and not at all delicious.

For the next few weeks thereafter, I suffered. Terribly.

But you know that already.

What you may not know is that nicotine is an appetite suppressant. And that a nicotine jones is very similar to a food jones. What's more, smoking kills the sense of taste. A few weeks after I quit smoking, my sense of taste came back. And everything became overwhelmingly delicious.

In short, when I quit smoking, I ate the world.

Whenever I felt like smoking, I had a sandwich. Or a doughnut. Or 7 cans of Beefaroni and a loaf of bread (true story).

As of right now, I've put on thirty-four and one half pounds - that's this [34.5] many. None of my underwear fit properly and I've broken a belt. But I don't look any different. At least not to my own eyes. Which is a good thing.

I think.

And get this - not only am I getting chubbier (ha!) but... well there's hair springing up where there was little to no hair before - particularly on my brand new belly. It's a little weird but I'm ok with it.

Now, Chuck, I'd be lying if I said that eating a ton of food makes me forget about smoking (though, for the most part, it does). Every now and again (and usually out of nowhere) I'll want a smoke. Badly. As badly as I wanted one the first day after I quit smoking. Instead of resisting the feeling (which almost always leads to failure), I acknowledge it. "Yes", I tell my body. "We want a cigarette and nothing else will do. But we're not going to have one. No matter how much you piss and moan and beg. So give it up. Here, have some cheesecake instead.

[Mmm. Cheeeeesecaaaaake]

I let the feeling flow right through me and acknowledge it for what it is - an powerless illusion that only gets as much power as I give it. And these days, I'm saving all my love for meatloaf.

Besides, I'm allergic to smoke now. Can you believe it?

I, who at my peak smoked nearly two packs a day, I who once trolled an ashtray for stray butts in a moment of desperation, I, who could smoke a pack in an hour if I had a guitar, a bottle of scotch, and a listener - I, that same I, am now wicked allergic to smoke.

How allergic, you ask?

A man walked into the bar after smoking a cigarette and sat next to me. The next morning, I had a sore throat.

In fact, that's happened so many times, I've stopped writing in the evenings or during other times when the bar gets busy. I can't take it. Which is weird and depressing and cool in all sorts of ways that I'm not prepared to articulate just now.

So this is where I am just now - hungrier, chubbier, healthier, and hairier. I'd say that's a fair exchange, no?

I'm still on that path. And it's still impossible. But here I am. A few months in. Still a quitter.

Your #1 fan,

Drew

P.S. - Send Beefaroni. It's my favorite.

Dear Chuck Norris, I Quit! Part IV: Thirty Something

originally posted September 12, 2009

Dear Chuck,

Nobody knows how to write a sad song like the folk who write country music. Of all the tears I've shed over things that don't matter and people who don't care, the most sincere of them all were inspired by twangy southern drawled men and women crooning about loss, love, and heartbreak.

Country singers approach whore houses and Sunday services with the same piercing innocent harmonies. Even when you're listening to the words, you can hardly tell the difference. Country, too, is the only genre that can tackle whiskey and Christianity with sincerity.

In other words, country music is the most emotionally honest music you or I have ever heard – and that's probably why most folk can't stand it.

I know this now because I've become an emotional basketcase.

I'm writing this as I'm tearing up to some song by some band about some woman who hurt some man. And, until today, I haven't figured out why my tears and chuckles and eyebrow raises and such have been so much more intense as of late.

No one ever told me that quitting smoking would trigger menopause.

It's been thirty something days since I've quit smoking. My allergies have eased up, my breath smells fresher, and I sleep like baby Jesus just about every night. But if you play “Here Comes Goodbye” by Rascal Flatts, I will cry like a baby. Every single time.

My doctor tells me that I'll even out eventually. He asked me what I'm doing to compensate in the meantime.

“Chocolate”, I said.

“Chocolate?”, he asked.

“Well and pizza. And candy. And like... chicken and stuff. Oh and mac and cheese. And oh! Oh! Wings! And eggs – lots of eggs and bacon. And sausage grinders and steak and cheddar burgers and...”

“Easy there, buddy”,he laughed, pausing for just a brief moment before asking, “You're not seriously eating all that crap are you?”

I didn't answer.

“How much weight have you put on buddy?”

I didn't answer.

“Tell the truth and shame the devil”, he said.

I laughed. “About... 24 pounds?”

It was his turn not to answer.

“I sweat a lot”, I said.

“I'll bet”, he said. Then silence.

“You think I'm an emotional overeater... don't you”, I said. It wasn't a question.

“Stay away from the chocolate”, he said. “And the country music. They'll get you in trouble.”

He hung up and I ate two ice cream cones and a microwave pizza. To spite him. I swear.

(candy bar)

It hasn't been easy, Chuck. I've gained some weight, lost my mind, and shivered like a junkie while trying to find my way back to something like being normal. And I'm still on that path. And it's still impossible. But here I am. Thirty something days in.

Your #1 fan,

Drew

Dear Chuck Norris, I Quit! Part III: Apes in the Parlor

originally posted August 18, 2009

“To quit smoking, all you have to do is forget everything you love. Everything. Forget your family. Forget your friends. Forget your lover. Forget your hopes, your dreams, your oh-so-perfect plans. None of that matters anymore.

When you’ve forgotten all the things you love (and I do mean everything) the only thing left will be you. Now, before you even think about quitting, you need to take a good long look at that remainder. Because that is the only thing that you're going to be able to count on to get you through.”

I said that (or something very similar) just a short while ago to someone who’d asked me how I’d managed to quit smoking. I didn’t really mean it. It just sounded cool and sort of profound, like it came from a place of deep insight and secret knowledge.

The truth is, I don’t know how anyone quits smoking. Sincerely. As I sit here now, 20 days removed from the slim lip-demons, I couldn’t tell you just how I got here.

Yet, here I sit here at exactly 6:26 AM on the evening of my 20th day smoke free.

I would love nothing more than to have learned something that I can share with everyone. In reality, though, I don’t really believe that I have. I already knew how terrible smoking was - most smokers do. And, having attempted to quit several times (well over 20 by the most conservative of estimates), I knew how hard it would be - most smokers so. So, insomuch as we (smokers) have all been there, I’ve got nothing new to say.

The withdrawal symptoms are unbearable but they aren’t the worst thing by any stretch. Free time, above all, is my enemy. I’m learning to fill in those spaces once occupied by cigarettes with short walks, poker, good books, great food, phone calls, and exercise. By no means do these things make me forget that I want to smoke. They do, however, remind me, in part, of the little things I enjoy - the things that I’ll enjoy a bit longer by not smoking.

I’ve even thought about going back to smoking with my eyes wide open, knowing that I would likely die from it, knowing that it would sap cash from my wallet, knowing that I’d be a stinking, bleary-eyed, yellow-tooth, addict for the rest of my days. I enjoyed smoking. And I hadn’t really experienced any of the scary awful-bad consequences of smoking; cancer and emphysema being among the worst of them. So far as I was concerned, I’d done it for so long, it was much easier to continue on a known path than to crucify the unhealthy version of me for the sake of far away and future heath benefits.

What kept me from making a u-turn was something just as foolish and unrealistic - the notion of an ideal me. The idea that there was a me as yet unrealized, a me that stopped settling and complaining and compromising for things like a couple ounces of dried leaves.

Even more to the point (and, perhaps, closer to the truth), I had to ask myself why I kept smoking as long as I did. Sure, I enjoyed it. But when it came right down to it, I didn’t smoke because I wanted to. I smoked because I had to. I smoked because me addiction demanded to be fed. I smoked because of the gun my addiction held to my temple. All day. Everyday.

Withdrawl.

Now that I’ve proven to myself that I’m stronger than withdrawal, going back to smoking is worse than a bad idea, worse than even giving up. It’s sacrilege.

I didn’t quit smoking to prove a point or to see if I could. In the simplest terms, I quit smoking because it was unhealthy. In fact, it’s markedly unhealthy. And I wanted to be healthy. So I quit.

I’m nearly three weeks out and, still, everything in my body tells me that discipline alone is not enough, that will power will never be enough. Quitting is, in all ways, impossible.

The demons have become more subtle. They prophesy my inevitable doom and demise and offer me the keys to my own destruction. “At least you’ll have turned the key yourself”, they say.

And I’ll slip, sure. I’ll fall, certainly. But it remains my choice whether or not to stay the course. And, with all the impossible whatnots concerning my ability to quit, I retain the power to choose.

Something about order invites chaos. Organization inadvertently breeds trouble. And it comes eagerly, like a greedy wildfire, licking all your well laid plans to ashes. But even though my latent addiction looses unruly apes in the prim and proper parlor of my preparations, I remain vigilant.

Because I’m worth it. And that’s all the reason I need.

Dear Chuck Norris, I Quit! Part II: Lucky 13

originally posted August 11, 2009

Learn and accept that smoking gives you NOTHING but death. Comfort from it is an illusion, as is stress relief, hunger mitigation, anger management, and all the other things attributed to the smokes. Learn to hate them, not "suffer" by giving them up and you'll learn not to crave them ever again. Know your enemy for what it is, and have no fear. Look your enemy in the eye and know him for death. He offers nothing in return.

-- Gervahlt, Quit.Net

Dear Mr. Norris,

My addiction lives without.

It's in my car and in my favorite seat on the couch. It's at the restaurant and outside the movie theater. It hides right behind food, sex, and television shows. It's walks with me to the grocery store and sits with me at the bar, daring me to try and have a beer without it. It sits in on every phone conversation and calls my name over and over. Drew. Drew. Drew. Drew. Smoke. Smoke. Smoke. Smoke.

My addiction lives within.

It holds my shaking hands and stares into my eyes and tells me what I want to hear. It understands. It's tell me that if I just have one cigarette, I'll see how bad they are. I'll remember. And I won't feel the need to smoke any more.

There is no break. My mind does not wander. I am not saved by eating food or chewing gum, or punishing myself with rubber bands. I am a mentally dedicated junkie. My addiction does not give a rat's ass about books or guitar or long walks or working out. It is there, patiently sitting cross-legged in the cup in my ear, telling me to smoke. Urging me to smoke. Begging me to smoke. Commanding me to smoke. Constantly.

I understand that this struggle will eventually be over. But the moment of victory (and consequently, the moment of relief) is seemingly so far away, it has become improbable with distance. And, in the mean time, giving in is all I ever think about. I know that if I smoke one, just one, I'll be back on the path to slow and silent death. But I also know that, if I smoke one (just one) all the insanity will end. I'll have my mind back. I'll have my body back. I'll become human again.

I want a cigarette. Or should I say, "I WANT A M@*%#*F!#&G CIGARETTE!"

And all I can do is say no.

Everything in my body tells me that discipline alone is not enough, that will power will never be enough. Quitting is, in all ways, impossible.

Yet, I sit here at exactly 6:00 AM on the morning of what will be my 12th day smoke free. And, if I can last until 6:00 AM tomorrow, I will have made it to lucky number 13.

That's my new morning ritual - counting the days gone by, pebbles in the bucket that remind me how far I've come, and how far I have yet to go. I'm learning to cherish the little victories, to examine and appreciate them as great successes unto themselves. I'm learning to love the little step. And every time a pebble clanks in the bottom of the bucket, I feel a little stronger. And I take another step.

My addiction is the devil. But if it wants my soul, it's going to have to wait until I'm dead. I'd rather be a healthy former smoker with an occasional desire to smoke, than a sickly smoker with a permanent desire to quit.

This is only the beginning. I am a quitter. It's what I do.

Your #1 fan,

Drew

Dear Chuck Norris, I Quit!

*originally posted August 10, 2009*

His name is Chuck Norris. He is my phantom life coach, my absentee confidant, the rock upon which I dash the waves of my withdrawal. He delivers whistlingly quick roundhouse kicks to my whining and excuses.

And, with his help, maybe, just maybe, I'll learn to be a quitter.

“Nicotine is highly addictive, to a degree similar or in some respects exceeding addiction to 'hard' drugs such as heroin and cocaine"

-- "Nicotine Addiction In Britain"
Report by Royal College Of Physicians – London

Dear Mr. Norris,

Smoking sucks.

I’ve tried and failed to quit at least fifteen [15] times in the ten [10] years I’ve been smoking. For the record, this is the last time I'm going to quit. This time, I'm not going back to the glowing one-eyed pimp.

Don’t get me wrong, though. I enjoyed the hell out of smoking. It makes me look cool and guarantees I’ll die young. Both of which are very tough. It’s just that the hacking and the wheezing and the stinking and the spending have gotten to be a bit too much. There’s better ways of spending my time and money.

The thing that worries me most is definitely the roughly 5 day hell period of withdrawal. I'm terrified of the withdrawal symptoms [fatigue, lack of concentration, irritability, depression, anxiety, insomnia, an increased tendency to dream (when one can actually get to sleep), headaches, sleep disturbances, indigestion, nausea, diarrhea, sore throats, and increased appetite. All of which can kick in within a few hours after the last cigarette. That's right. All of them at the same time!] but hell, it's not like it'll get any easier if I put it off. And I've got to do something.

Because I don’t want to end up like THIS guy:

I was working at a gas station a few years ago and a man came up to the counter. He had the breath of a corpse and the skin of a sun-dried komodo dragon. One of the two of his yellowing eyes was split open a bit at the bottom and (:gag:) it was oozing thick yellowish… schtuff.

Oh but it gets better. He had SEVERAL holes in his neck and to talk to me he had to use one of those doohickeys that makes folk sound like Robot Jones. On top of all of this, he only had enough breath to utter one word at a time. He used what could have very well been the last of his breaths to say these three words…

"Skoal…"

"…Wintergreen…"

"…Longcut…"

Now THAT’S an addiction.

(note: Skoal is smokeless or ‘chewing’ tobacco – Wintergreen is a flavor they offer and longcut is one of two varieties of Skoal [the other being ‘fine cut’])

I’ve done some pretty terrible things in my lifetime but damn it if this wasn’t one of the absolute worst. I sold it to him. Every part of me knew that it was wrong to do so. I should have said “no” and let myself be fired or just quit on the spot or something - anything demonstrating a little moral backbone. But no, I sold it to him and got regret and nightmares in return.

After that, I started to notice more and more how many people come in for their fix of nicotine – people with sickly eyes yellowing fingernails and brown teeth, people breathing heavier than any pedophile or phone sex operator could ever dream, people carrying the sick stink of tobacco - the walking dead.

A third of the people I’ve sold that crap will die from it.

These are people who otherwise lead normal lives. These are people who started smoking to piss off their parents or because their brother did or to fit in with the cool kids or any other number of reasons. These are people, most of them, who didn’t want to be at a gas station standing in front of me and asking for death, people tired of being slaves to a few ounces of dried leaves.

These people don’t want to smoke.

I tried and failed shortly after meeting that man but I haven’t yet given up on quitting smoking. I’ll make it. Picking up smoking was a huge mistake that millions of people [including myself] have made. We had little to no idea what we were getting into and, what with social norms being what they are, smoking was and is mostly ok, even cool in the proper context. Honestly.

Imagine James Dean without a smoke

See what I mean?

But if all I had to do to quit smoking (thereby regaining my health) was to give up on being cool, I would have quit long ago. I stand zero chance of being accused of coolness on any level - cigarette or no.

I can already hear some of you saying "It's the nicotine, right? It's that damn drug!". But you're wrong.

Nicotine isn't the biggest problem. Habit and ritual are the biggest problem. To put it another way, my arch enemy is free time.

I filled in a great many odd hours and stray minutes smoking. Hell, there is NOTHING better than a drag from a cigarette to instigate a dramatic pause in conversation. I smoked after most meals, smoked as I waited for the bus to work and right after I got off the bus. I smoked during breaks at work. I smoked in between smokes because someone showed up and didn't want to smoke alone.

Smoking has bridged the gap between just about all the mundane and major events and happenings in my life for quite some time. Wake up [smoke] shower [smoke] get dressed [smoke] breakfast [smoke] coat [smoke] ride to work [smoke] blink [smoke] inhale [smoke] exhale... you get the picture. Smoking had become a reflex.

Then I took it away. And everything went to hell.

I can’t even being to describe the sensory Armageddon that overtook me. It began with the simple understanding that I wouldn’t be lighting up like I’d done thousands of times before. Nope. I’d be having a beer or watching TV or gnawing on a pork chop and wouldn’t have a smoke tucked between the first and second fingers of my right hand.

I found myself stuttering and hesitating at the places where a smoke would usually happen. My thoughts ran all over the place with almost 0 reason or purpose. I felt alternately fully wired and dead tired. Everything reminded me of smoking. I stood up and sat down constantly and paced in between. Emotions were all but meaningless. By the time I had a name for what I was feeling, it had changed. And my mind wasn’t in no condition to keep up. I went to bed so tense that I had to remind myself to breath in and out every few minutes.

Hell would have been a vacation from that night. And day two and three made day one seem like a trip to Disney.

Sure, I’m praying for death. Sure, I’m itching and twitching and climbing the walls BEGGING baby Jesus for the taste of the super-delicious smoke. Sure, I'd be more than willing to drink the blood of one million virgin nuns if it meant that I could get just one tiny taste of the precious sweet cigarette.

And I would, Chuck. I’d go back to smoking like a hooker to a pimp if it weren’t for one tiny truth. One fact that has made all the difference. The one thing I repeat to myself when the going gets tough.

I. Am. A. Quitter. And it's time I started acting like one.

Pray for me, Mr. Norris.

Your #1 fan,

Drew

The Jerk

WARNING: The following includes frank and explicit descriptions of sex and sexuality as it relates to self-gratification. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

I think it's about time we had an honest discussion about masturbation. Just you and me. Right over here. It's ok. No one will hear us.

Oh c'mon, don't be shy. We NEED to have this conversation. Mostly because we never have. And according to the numbers, most of us are a part of this secret fraternity.

Most guys [over 90%] handle their handle on a regular basis and 2/3 of the women folk "do themselves a favor" just as frequently. And it isn't just for singles. Folk masturbate regardless of whether they have sexual partners or not.

It happens all over the world cutting across boundaries of sex, race, sexuality, age, and social class. It's as common as our need for love. Yet, despite our common enthusiasm, we've managed to remain fairly uptight on the subject. Rarely if ever do we engage in honest conversations about sex and sexuality and, even when we do, the brakes are usually put on when it comes to masturbation.

Even more than just being taboo, "going solo" has even been deemed evil by some groups. What's more, the subject matter has been buried under a mountain of myths and outright lies. Masturbation (self-gratification, if you please) - our favorite pass time, has been under attack for centuries.

In the 18th and 19th centuries, masturbation was blamed for 60% of what ailed us including; insanity, vision and hearing problems, epilepsy, and mental retardation. Most recently, in the secular arena, Surgeon General Joycelyn Elders got the boot after her December 1994 statement that “masturbation is part of human sexuality and a part of something that perhaps should be taught”.

Thank God some sane folk weren't willing to take that nonsense laying down. The Kinsey report [Jan 1948] not only debunked this madness but discovered that masturbation was actually beneficial! And in 1966, Masters and Johnson (tee hee!) proved that just about everyone does it. Joycelyn Elders was right on the money. Masturbation is a part of who we all are. Hurrah for Science!

What's more, masturbation can prevent cancer! - for men, at least (sorry ladies). According to a recent study, scientists found that, while sexual intercourse did not affect prostate cancer risk, frequent masturbation did -- specifically men in their 50s who masturbated frequently had decreased risk of prostate cancer.

More than that, masturbation also helps in the development of a healthy, responsible sex life - without hurting anyone. Masturbation, more than any other sexual act, allows us to be completely honest and open about what turns us on. We don't worry about performance because we know the score when it comes to our own bodies. That special alone time helps us become familiar with what turns us on which, in turn, makes it easier to articulate what we like [and don't like] to our partner.

So what have we learned so far? Masturbation, far from being evil, is actually pretty good for us in more ways than one. It's a natural, safe, and healthy expression of our sexuality and, more than that, it is a integral part of our collective biological heritage.

However, we're still in tacit agreement that talking about it is naughty, at best. Even the most progressive of us would suggest "Go on and do it but for God's sake don't talk about it!"

Even though we've been able to overcome our shy childish giggles and have thoughtful reasoned discussion about sexual intercourse, masturbation, though common place, has never really been a topic we've been comfortable with.

Which is exactly why we're sitting down and talking, you and I. To break the ice. Because someone needs to.

Our sexual health and heritage are at stake here. It's high time we acknowledge the full breadth and scope of our sexual identities and embraced this fundamental biological endowment with dignity. Who cares if your dead relatives are watching or if kittens are dropping off left and right? You'll be glad you spent all that time alone once you reach sexual dynamo status.

So go ahead. Share a bit of yourself with yourself. Who knows? The sex life you save may be your own.

Dear Me

Dear Drew,

You know, the last thing I expected to feel when writing a letter to myself was 'awkward'. But I do. I feel awkward. And I think that's an important acknowledgment. No doubt, you likely feel the same way, being in receipt of a letter from an older and presumably wiser (and handsomer) you. So what say we give ourselves permission to rattle through this thing in whatever way we’re able.

Agreed?

I'm supposing I should toss some advice your way but, knowing you, I'd imagine you're much more interested in what it's like to be me. Or, rather, what it will be like to be you at 29. Which I guess amount to the same thing. So I'll start off by answering those simpler questions.

Just about everyone in your life is new including, as it turns out, a large part of your family. You won't have kids but you'll be an uncle several times over - 11 to be exact - and you'll own a Mustang. A red Mustang. A really fast and pretty red Mustang.

Cool, huh?

You get taller and gain about 80 pounds. You're still a little skinny but nowhere near as small as you are now. Your voice gets deeper - way deeper - and you'll finally, FINALLY, be able to grow a decent goatee. As irony would have it, you'll also be a victim of male pattern baldness. It doesn't suck nearly as much as it may sound like it does but I suggest growing an afro or two now while you still can.

Sorry about that.

On the plus side, despite how things look just now, you won't be a virgin all your life.

You're welcome.

College changes everything. You meet tons of new people and learn what it means to be a good person (albeit you end up having to learn the hard way but the lesson sticks). You'll meet most of your best friends here.

It bears repeating that just about everyone in your life is new. Which means you lose some fairly important people on the way to being 29. I know that's a little tough to process but it's not nearly as traumatic as it sounds. You also gain some fairly important people. And a Mustang. A red Mustang. Which, though previously mentioned, is nonetheless, still pretty cool.

I know how you feel about love and relationships and, frankly, I can't blame you. Nonetheless, you're going to fall in love. Big time. That sappy, over-the-moon, do-anything-for-you, die-without-you sort of love is very real despite your cynicism - very real and unspeakably wonderful. This is another lesson you'll have to learn the hard way. You're going to have your heart very badly broken. I'd ask you to consider that fair warning but I know you're going to follow your heart and ignore all the warning signs regardless of what I say.

Good.

Despite it all, good. Never give up on that sort of behavior.

You're a much better man than you figure you are. When in doubt, go with your gut. You'll be right most of the time.

Don't waste another minute being upset about being gay. It's not a demon or a curse or a disorder or anything of the sort. Don't dwell on what people may or may not think or say about who you are and just get on being who you are. The alternative is extremely painful and untenable at best.

Save your baby pictures by any means necessary. They come in handy.

Don't smoke. Not a moment of it is worth it.

Take it easy on the sugar.

Ok so about that smoking thing - a little pot is ok. You'll grow out of it fairly quickly but it's worth exploring. Anything more than pot will freak you out, you'll end up in the hospital, and you'll never hear the end of it. Ever.

Dance, damn you.

You’re easily a better writer than you are a trombonist. Keep at it. Share your work. And, whatever you do, don’t keep your journals in the basement!

(while I’m at it, don’t let mom throw away that word processor. You know why.)

Stick with church for as long as you possibly can. They’ll do a much better job of showing you exactly why such things aren’t for you than I ever can.

Never give anyone permission to make you feel bad about who you are.

And finally;

“This above all: To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.” -- William Shakespeare, Hamlet

Take your time getting here. Ignore the brakes. Respect the rules. Don’t fear the reaper.

I would tell you that I love you but you’d never believe me.

xoxo

Drew

P.S. – Dance with Nuance before you leave high school. You won’t regret it.