Note to Self: You Rule.

Today marks my second year anniversary of quitting smoking.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't occasionally miss it, but 95% of the time I'm happy knowing that the old lungs are back to a normal, pinkish hue. And I love being able to run without getting a horrible stitch in my side, and I love waking up even after drinking entirely too much without a sore throat, and I don't miss the yearly bouts with bronchitis, and I don't miss having stinky clothes and hair.

I smoked my first cigarette in the seventh grade, and continued all through my formative years. For many years I was a serial quitter, quitting for weeks and months at a time (once in college I quit for an entire year). But every time I would go back to smoking I would somehow feel more life myself. Like the real, cynical, smartass, vulnerable high school aged Sasefina, cig firmly in hand. Smoking was a diversion, a meditation, a piece of armor. It was a hard habit to break, and I don't think I'll ever feel confident that I've progressed beyond it's grip.

But here's to growing up.