I Thought You Were The Answer To The Question In My Mind

Dear Cigarettes,
You have been the calming voice when I was angry. You have been the sobering voice when I was drunk. You have been the soothing constant when I was stressed. You have been the loyal companion, the sympathetic ear to all my worst moments. Cigarettes, you are the best friend I’ve ever known. You are chic, fabulous and timeless. Others said horrible things about you, Cigarettes, but I never believed. To me you were always the exemplification of class.

But lately things have changed. Others that I love, others that I trust, have warned me about you, Cigarettes. The blinds I cleaned only a year ago swear it was you that turned them yellow; my dearly-beloved vintage coats confessed that you are responsible for their newly acquired fowl odor; my lungs (initially as skeptical of your reputation as me) accepted you into our circle but after five years have begun to doubt your loyalty.

My dear cigarettes, I love you but there are just too many voices rising against you. I believe you are a toxic friend. It used to only cost me two dollars and some change to see you. Now spending time with you forces me to forfeit time with my other loves. Over-priced coffee and microbrewed-beers were the first to complain of my absence. Knowing their tendency to be self-absorbed and demanding, I ignored them as long as possible, but Cigarettes, your demand of $5+ per pack is now affecting my relationship with electricity bills and basic foods as well. Once I realized you were allied with the wrinkles that have begun emerging in my face, I finally accepted the truth. You are a user, Cigarettes. You took me for my money and you left me aged. And yellow. And smelly.

It hurts me to leave you, Cigarettes. You possess a savvy and a sex appeal I will never be able to equal. I have envied you, loved you, and aspired to embody your nature since I was a teenager. You hung with Audrey, Bogie, Marilyn, Kurt, and Sid. You are the embodiment of sex, rebellion, angst, and sheer class. You are more than I can ever be. But Cigarettes, you are a back-stabbing bitch. You’ve never loved me. And your phony feelings, as Mary L. Blige says, have “led me to want some real love."

Dearest Cigarettes, I thought you were the answer to the question in my mind, but it seems that I was wrong. And if I stay strong maybe I’ll find a real love.

Update: Nevermind that, Cigarettes. I'm sorry for my harsh words.... I wish I could quit you.