After 32 years of leaf in one form or another - peaking at a can a half per day - I took my last dip on Tuesday, June 21, 2011.
Like almost everybody, I've known for years that I needed to quit. It's a disgusting habit that I've always found revolting in others, but somehow never seemed to notice when I looked in the mirror. Yes, it'll kill you... yes, you'll lose your tongue half your jaw... yes, your teeth will fall out. My brain understands this, but it don't mean shit. I'm within spitting distance of 45 years old, but in my mind I'm still 18 bulletproof. I'll never die. Besides, I'll magically quit before anything bad happens - right?
Bullshit. It's time to get off my dead ass actually do something about it.
The final straw came last week when I had to be driven home from work. Weak as a kitten, sweating like a whore in church and nauseated beyond belief. I passed it off to others as food poisoning, but that was a lie. It was the Copenhagen... You've been there - when you have one too many dips for the day your body simply rebels against the poison you're forcing into it.
For the past week, I've been a snarling, jittery, constipated mess. My nic-fits simply laugh at the 4mg gum. I'm doing the gum to take the edge off in between the things that really help - fighting, fucking and breaking things.
Somebody please put a boot in my ass if I ever pick up another can.
