The Bloody Doors Off

Nine years.

Nine fucking years.

I’m coming up on nine years since I quit smoking.

A year since I gave up vaping.

And I don’t miss it.

I still have 3 of the mods on my desk.

Haven’t been able to let them go.

You know. In case.

They’re a relic of my past. Archaeologists will have a field day explaining that.

That also means nine years since my little ‘sabbatical’.

(If you really wanna know the story, scroll back to the fall of 2013. I’m not rehashing.)

[checks the date]

Yeah, I guess it started ramping up about now.

Anyway.

I remember this as I ponder my life post heart attack.

And I’m thankful I quit when I did. (No sense in wishing it’d happened sooner; I tried to quit twice before, and clearly neither attempt took.) Any damage I could’ve inflicted to my heart that may have hastened last month’s adventure.

Not to mention the tiny spot on my lung that hasn’t grown a centimetre since my GP decided to schedule a yearly CT scan.

My point.

And I think I have one.

[checks pockets]

Quitting when I did may have saved my life. And it gave me focus then; a goal. I had a long road to travel and I sure did love lighting up on my walk from the subway station to the house on Greenwood.

And now I’m here.

Fuck.

I really wanted a poetic exit to this post.

Something to express.

Contentment.

IYKYK.