reminiscing on my thoughts when going out for a fag at 17

 I noticed how smoke lingered under the porch light on that still, spring night. Comparing to how I was used to it disappearing on those past, winter eves. It hung around, greeting me, suspended on the mild air that came with the change of season. Making it feel like a smoking room or the outside of a crowded pub. But here, instead of darkness making soulmates of strangers, the only sound to be heard was the bleating of distant lambs, coupled with the electric hum of a porch light.

It's funny how you stick with what you start with. I remember sneaking my first Marlboro from my dad's "concert jacket", followed ones I'd bum off my friends when I'd no cash. Plus Pall Malls taste like dirt. 

Smoking at night became a ritual, not so much because of withdrawals but because i just like it. I don't think it's that hard to quit, I just don't want to. I'm an idiot.

Kids are advertised to how to quit before they even start so quitting always felt  like a big deal growing up. Seeing all those filthy, smoking adults around me and judging them for not kicking the habit like the Nicorrette ads told me they wanted to.