Eight Years

Eight years ago today I quit smoking cigarettes. After 32 years of Camel no-rags, I met a woman who answered “yes” when I asked if smoking were a deal breaker. Granted, it was the first time I’d asked that question: is smoking a deal breaker?

I made that promise to this woman I’d fallen in love with right around Dec. 31, 2008. I read up on quitting, and realized I needed a plan, and a memorable quit date.

Barack Obama’s inauguration was my memorable quit date. January 20, 2009. I haven’t smoked a cig since, and have regained considerable lung capacity–and added almost a fifth to my vocal range.

Today I came home from work, heart sick. I had to be with my dog, and wait for the aforementioned woman to get done with science.  The dog and me, we picked her up from work. He was glad to see her, painfully, his paws unintentionally scratching his lady’s face in a frenzy of howdies. Been at least nine hours, after all.

Enough time, as my work-friend said, “for the Father of Lies to swear an oath.”

And plenty of time, while we’re at work, at a university doing the people’s work, making things better for you and I, for whitehouse.gov’s faceless minions to leave a dirty “page not found” for LGBT rights, civil rights, and science. Entire reports: gone.

The future is disappearing. Which is why scientists are scrambling to save the data.

This octoversary of not smoking, the devil come up from the swamp.

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