t's cigarette-free day number two, and I am not loving life in the least. I do enjoy scratching my eye with my right-hand index finger and smelling Dial hand soap instead of dirty ashtray, as I did earlier this morning. Smoking cigarettes also has a way of leaving your mouth, no matter how often you brush your teeth, tasting strongly reminiscent of the dank bar floor (or what the bar floor might taste like should one actually take a big lick). I do not miss those things. But after deciding, and really meaning, you want to quit smoking cigarettes for good, it becomes quickly apparent how close the two of you have grown. It actually hits you like a ton of bricks. Or an extraordinarily large number of boulders plummeting en masse off the structurally compromised side of an enormous mountain.

For the last few years, every day of my life has been paced by carefully planned cigarette breaks. A break first thing in the morning, right after my starter cup of coffee and before showering. Then two on the way out the door to get me through the afternoon, since I currently work for my parents and they think I've already quit (especially after rewarding me with an all-expenses-paid trip to visit friends in Chicago for quitting the third time). And then usually at work after I convince myself my parents won't at all find it odd that I've made a habit of excusing myself, for a consistent five minutes each trip, to the loading dock at least four times every afternoon.

I lose track in the evenings.

Cigarettes have more than nicely settled into (and in between) the routine behaviors that shape my daily life and reflect who I am. Just as have, over the years, bathing regularly, eating pickled baby corn from the jar, and religiously avoiding the gas station until the console of my car flashes the "LOW FUEL" warning in bright green letters.

And I'm just now REALLY getting it. It didn't sink in the last four times I tried to quit. To be honest, I'm not quite sure a few one-week, smoke-free stints constitute quitting (or actually, one week broken into three sections by a few intermittent puffs – for old time's sake), when after a valiant effort, I would conclude that I just prefer the experience of smoking cigarettes to that of chewing Nicorette anyway.

The unequivocal truth is the cigarettes and I are deeply in love. A twisted, dysfunctional, disgusting kind of love. But in love, nevertheless. I enjoy cigarettes more than rum raisin bread pudding, the first 65 degree afternoon following a bitterly cold winter, Scrabble, and yes, even more than the fetching and endearingly vulnerable Ned the Pie Maker from ABC's Pushing Daisies.

My Marlboro Lights clearly desire more from our relationship than my recently enforced boundaries allow, and I am dealing with that. This time, I am determined as hell to end the nasty affair for good. I have learned that immediately severing all ties is the best means to effectively move past wounded, hopeless relationships.

In my last waning relationship, adhering to said principle required removing my boyfriend's ass from our apartment.

This go-around necessitates a steadfast commitment to always pay at the pump.