Diary 1 – Last day of smoking. 2010-01-18.

I wake from a bad dream, which I can’t remember, though I realize it was probably caused by my immense headache. It takes me a while to realize that my alarm is beeping and another moment to realize that I have to call in sick. I press the snooze button and postpone the phone call to 8 o’clock. I light up one of the three cigarettes that are left in the pack and remember with a groan that this is supposed to be my last. Cigarette smoke never tasted good to me but today it’s downright disgusting. My throat is aching and the smoke leaves a chlorine-like trail down to my lunges. I’m thinking that quitting is probably a good idea but I don’t put the cigarette out. I might as well make the last three cigarettes of my life a bad memory. I crush the last inch of the cigarette in the ashtray and open the window, after which I crank the heat up. I want to get rid of the smoke but I don’t want to freeze. I climb under the duvet and put on some Scrubs on the laptop. I doze off after a couple of minutes but someone knocks (pounds rather) on my window, like they’re trying to break it. I get out of bed and quickly throw on some sweatpants. I punch the window open, rather hoping that the person outside is going to get a headache matching mine.
“What?”
It’s the upstairs neighbor. He’s hammered out of his mind and can’t locate the door. I put on a jacket and shoes and rushes out the front door. I nearly trip twice on the icy doorstep and sidewalk. I go around back where the drunk is lost, and call out to get his attention. He looks up wildly and nearly trips in the snow. He greets me by a wrong name and staggers over to the gate I’m holding open for him. In my mind I visualize this scenario as the beginning to a very bad zombie flick. I don’t say anything about the icy sidewalk and he very nearly falls on his way to the front door. The zombie stops dead helpless in front of the door and looks hopingly towards me. I meet his gaze skeptically and without taking my eyes from his, I open the front door, which isn’t locked. He doesn’t even realize his stupidity but merely staggers inside and tries to close the door as I’m entering. I stop the door with my shoulder and he falls over. He manages to push himself up to sit on the first step. I ask him if he’s going to be okay but he can’t formulate a complete sentence. I ask him if he’s going to be able to climb the stairs by himself. To this he nods and I leave the drunk zombie on the stairs.
I kick off my shoes in the doorway and staggers back to bed, accidentally knocking over the ashtray on the way. “Another reason to quit smoking” I think as I brush off the ashes and pick up the butts. The cold seem to have woken me up properly and I can’t fall asleep again. I light the second last cigarette of my life and put on some Craig Ferguson on youtube. That guy always cracks me up.
I call in sick and the lady on the phone seems convinced enough by my hoarse voice that she doesn’t ask any further questions. I’m grateful because it really hurts when I talk. I fling the butt of the cigarette out the window, since I placed the ashtray in the kitchen.
Mom comes by with scones and cocoa later because she knows I’m sick. I smoke the last cigarette of my life after breakfast.
Later I cut out some carrots when the desire turns in. The oblong slices look like cigarettes to me and I carve out a carrot cigarette just for fun. I don’t bother peeling them and I wonder whether unpeeled carrots can give you cancer. Trading out coffin nails with carrot death sticks. I smile at the irony.