Fell off the wagon.

More like I jumped off the wagon, jumped in front of it, and let it run over me.

After having quit smoking for 4 weeks and 3 days, I decided that, although I did not want to buy a pack of cigarettes, or become a constant smoker again, that one little cigarette wouldn't kill me (well, not right away). So I did what all stressed out "non-smokers" do: I whined until I successfully bummed a cigarette.

The first drag was awesome. The familiar feeling between my fingers and the lovely carcinigens invading my lungs was something to be savoured - like a fine wine. The second and third drags were quite lovely, but nothing to write home about. By the fourth or fifth drag, I felt like I was smothering myself, and then I was mindlessly puffing, hoping for it to be over soon.

This was a mere regular sized cigarette. It was not the king sizers I had been buying before.

As I threw it out the window, I was actually somewhat grateful that I'd fallen off the wagon.

I got a dose of nicotine and realized it still didn't fix my problems or make me feel any better. And as such I don't have any desire to go back to it.