DFA

I am going to preface this by saying that there is no point to the writing that follows. Rather, it’s the result of sitting in one place for the past five hours and the realization of reality setting in.

Right now, it’s 11:15 at night. I’m on the train on the way back into Chicago from Michigan for the first time since July of 2010 and I’m riding it with a feeling of melancholy that’s not related to the four college kids drinking beers and talking at the top of their lungs or the flailing child kicking the back of my seat. It has more to do with the fact that one of my best friends, someone I’ve known since 6^th grade and have developed an iron-clad bond with over the past 12 or so years, is leaving for Australia for two years tomorrow evening.

When I reflect on the last half of my life, Donna Aviles has been a consistent presence. Of the maybe 4 or 5 people from high school that I still keep in touch with, Donna is the one in the most vivid memories. Along with our seemingly permanent accessory, Brad, we were a constant presence outside the downtown Starbucks or at the sushi place or just driving around, it didn’t seem to matter what we were doing, it was always fun.

But the most important times aren’t always the best or easiest. We’re both stubborn people, I, in particular, antagonize for the sole purpose of agitation. There was the time in high school that we argued about abortion vs. adoption with me being, not pro-choice, but pro-abortion. It was notable because it wasn’t one of our normal, stupid arguments. It was also the first time Donna called me her best friend. Best. Friend.

It’s a term that was and still is thrown around a lot. I don’t believe that it’s something to be taken lightly. A best friend is someone you can always rely on to be there for you. Your own personal cheerleader. It’s someone that you can call no matter what time it is just to talk and end the conversation feeling better about your position in life.

But now, my friend is moving. Moving out of the state she’s lived in for most of her life, spending a solid 20 plus hours in the air, to continue her education in Australia. And though I’m going to miss her as much as I have ever missed a person in my life, I know that now’s the time for me to be her best friend and support her. I tell her that everything will be ok because I know that it will be and I hope that she’s able to fully appreciate the opportunity she’s being given.

Donna, you’re one of the most important people in my life and I couldn’t be happier for you.

Expert Texpert

I am a smoker.

I have been a smoker for the past seven years of my life.

I do not want to hit 10 years.

I know this, even as I lean half of my body out the one window in my studio apartment without a screen and inhale deeply. And exhale. And inhale. And exhale.

The lengths that I go through as a smoker to continue this awful habit are testaments to my lack of willpower. Does buying a pack of cigarettes mean that I skip a couple meals? No big deal, nicotine's an appetite suppressant anyway and I could stand to lose a few pounds. Does buying a pack of cigarettes mean that I can't go out and drink this week? Whatever. Does buying a pack of cigarettes mean that rent's a little bit tighter this month? Does it matter?

About a month ago, I developed small bumps on the back of my throat. They're still there. Last week I went to the Walgreen's walk in clinic to get them looked at.

"It's not strep," the nurse practitioner said.

"There are certain sores that appear if it's some kind of oral cancer," she said.

Of course, it doesn't matter. A nice, under-recognized side effect of being a smoker is that I automatically assume the worst when it comes to my health. Of course it's cancer, what else could it be? I deserve it, picking up such a stupid fucking habit.

But here's the thing. I. Can. Not. Stop. Or rather, I am not ready to stop yet. I am so unprepared to lose something that has been such a huge part of my life for so long that I am braving all the risks. I am also an idiot.

When I started, I was 16 and I still knew better. But Christ, those cloves tasted good AND looked fucking cool. And how comfortable was I driving around in my car, pungent clouds trailing out of my windows? It was like coming home. Ignoring a brief, ill-advised affair with a pipe that only served to make my friends and I look like big big assholes, I stayed a clove smoker until just before college. Hilariously, I bought a pack of cigarettes to get me off the cloves in an attempt TO BE HEALTHIER. Did I mention that I'm an idiot?

In college, besides alcohol, cigarettes drew us all together. Flush with graduation party cash, I was awash in a paradise of tobacco, alcohol and Chinese food. My pack count grew to around two a day. Essentially, I spent much of the day and night outside. It was a safety blanket. It didn't take away my my anxieties but it gave me something else to focus on. My antisocial tendencies made it so that I felt that I could only really connect with people with a lit smoke in my hand.

Sophomore year, I got an apartment with two friends, both smokers. Even though we said we wouldn't smoke inside, we did. With wild abandon. There was an actual layer of smoke in our small apartment that hung about six inches thick from our ceiling. When we opened the door to our porch, it looked like a scene from a stoner comedy.

That has been my life. It is my life. Smoking is so much a part of my daily routine that it's impossible to separate certain acts from lighting up. Like waking up. Or eating. Breathing?

I have used quitting aids, the gum, the patch, the mints. The gum made me nauseous, the patch made me twitchy, the mints did nothing. If I quit, it has to be cold turkey. I need to quit, I don't want to be a 26 year old smoker. I don't want to be a 30 year old smoker. I definitely don't want to think about what happens if I'm still smoking after 30.

New year, new me? Let's make a deal, life. I'll quit smoking if you take it easy on me.

No, I don't want to shake your hand.