At the age of 12, in the woods behind Indian Springs School south of Birmingham, Alabama, I smoked my first cigarette. It was not bad, as I remember it — obviously it wasn’t too terrible, as I kept on going.

That’s 22 years of smoking, folks, a full two-thirds of my life. Most of the past 16 have been at about two packs a day. I’m not even about to add up the number of actual cigarettes smoked, or the cost. Doesn’t matter anymore, because I’m through. Yesterday, I smoked 6 cigarettes, versus my usual 40.

Oh, and I’ve dropped my sugar and caffeine intake dramatically, too, from over a six-pack of soda a day to one or two.

Maybe I should quit cold turkey. Maybe anyone in their right mind would never drop two habits at once, but hey, this is Insomniactivetown, and here, we don’t fuck around.

All this not to get congratulations or sympathy (though money is a good incentive, and attention from beautiful women is highly encouraged), but to give you guys out there a little advice:

This morning, the withdrawal symptoms for both have kicked me in the head and gut. Head is alternately on fire and about to crack open at every sinus. My chest is tight, I’m a little nauseous, and I’m tired like you can’t believe. It’s like a hangover, but replace the happy buzz from the night before with … well, nothing. I’m suffering through it in stride — I think I was rather abrupt with a coworker this morning, but I’m here, and dealing. But I’ve had two people already look at me, hear what is wrong, and offer me their own little bit of advice:

“You should just go have a cigarette and drink a coke. One isn’t gonna hurt you.”

Actually, one is what started all this in the first place, assclown. And if you understood thing one about addiction, you’d understand that yeah, one is gonna hurt me, because it makes it easier to validate the next one.

No, I knew this was coming. Action, meet consequence. I’ll push through it, and it will be over, and then I can start working away at my man-boobs and love handles.*

There are rough things in life, and avoiding them just because they’re going to hurt a little is pointless. Go ahead and get them out of the way. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, and more bitter, and provides fodder for your screenwriting.

But if you’re on the outside, watching someone go through something like this, don’t offer them a smoke, or drive them to Starbucks to replace the sugar and caffeine. Just take Bree’s lead; she’s a pretty damn smart woman:

“Aw, honey, I’m sorry. Just stay strong, and remember why you’re doing this! You’ll feel better soon.”

And as rough as the morning was, and I’m still not on top of things, she’s right. She usually is.

* Okay, I don’t really have manboobs. But I’d let you hold them if I did.