Four years ago I quit smoking. I had good days and bad days, just as I did during my years of inhaling the poison. I thought I had it kicked, so one night last year I had a few drags. It was disgusting, which confirmed my belief. A few days later I had another. I didn’t need it, that’s what I told myself. I could have the “occasional” cigarette. No big deal. But soon I was back to a pack a day. The little monster was back, too, and he needed to be fed. I stopped going out, hated the way I smelled, hated how I couldn’t even enjoy a conversation with friends, constantly thinking about the little monster screaming for his fix. But I couldn’t hide forever. Last week my father flew out to L.A. and I was suddenly fifteen, sneaking cigarettes outside. I sprayed Febreze, guzzled mouthwash. Maybe it covered the stench, my father never said a word, but it did little to cover my shame. I was an addict, hooked and embarrassed. Well, today, I just put out my last cigarette. Chucked the remaining seven down the trash chute. I’m a non-smoker.