Cigarettes. My one and only. You're gone. Sweet cylindrical ones, you're gone. It's been nine months. Now I know how pregnant smokers feel, obvs (minus birthing a bowling ball sized creature from an opening that sends pain signals to my brain). Except, after the emotional space mountain I've been on since sounding the death knell to all those future coffin nails, I'll never come near you.
There will be no substances in my body that don't do any modicum of good for my mind. I like having better circulation. I really can feel it. It's like something clicked recently, and I don't feel so detached from my body, don't yearn ceaselessly to be twenty years old again, to have all that energy, and never start down such a path of delicious self-ravaging. I still often feel like crap when I wake up in the morning, but that's also getting better.
C'est la vie. 30 is the new 20, and 50 is the new alive for another twenty years after, at least for the men in my family.