I am really hurting. Not from any ordinary drug withdrawals. Not from caffiene (which is way worse), not from alcohol (ok, maybe it is from that, too), but from the lack of a good cigar.
I have not smoked a cigar for at least three weeks. Three weeks. That is like way more than 24 hours. Yep, at least that much. I am pretty sure that three weeks is like more than… ummm… more than… yeah… more than 20 days (I had to get the calc running).
It isn’t a nicotine fit that I am having. Cigars are not addictive in that way like nasty cigarettes. For some reason, I need lots of smoke in my eyes right now. My eyes are screaming for large clouds of smoke. I need lots of smoke going up my nose, too. I just feel the need. I need my fingers to smell like really yummy tobacco. I need my tongue to have the flavor of smoke all over it. I need my shirt to smell like cigar smoke. I need it, I tell you, I need it.
This isn’t a physical sort of need. It is much deeper. It is a deep rooted love kind of need. I need to have a cigar that I can run under my nose and inhale its wonderful odorous goodness. I need to feel the light oils of it on my fingers. I need to taste it on my lips as I wet the tip. I need to feel the slice of the cutter as it chops off that little tip of the cigar. I need to fire up my lighter and toast the end as I puff up huge clouds of smoke.
I have to do it, I tell you, I have to!
My addiction started several years ago. I started a habit that became of so much more than a habit. It became a lifestyle. There were three of us in my department that smoked cigars. We even kept a little humidor in the office. We kept it stocked, and every day at 3pm, we would have a meeting on the balcony where we would chase off all the whimpy cigarette smokers with our huge clouds of cigar smoke. We would do all of our paperwork and enjoy the burning of fermented vegetation almost every day. Yes, those were wonderful times.
I soon found that you can buy cigars on the Internet. Soon after, I found you could bid on them in online auctions. Five packs, boxes, crates of boxes… Soon, I had a dedicated cigar purchasing credit card. I ran out of humidor space, so I bought more humidors. I bought bigger humidors. I considered making my basement into one huge humidor. The boxes started coming in on a regular basis. Then came the dedicated UPS driver just for my shipment. At one point, I had to build a dock on the side of my house to handle the fleets of trucks bringing cigars to my house. They had to widen the road to my house because of my cigars. I had to move the kids out of their bedrooms and they had to sleep in the hallway because my cigars needed a place to be stored (OK, this one, at least, is an exaggeration).
Then came the intervention. "Russ," they said (it is my name, by the way – I don’t think I would have listened if they called me Sam or Jimmy), "You have a problem. We can help you." I didn’t want to hear it, but they finally convinced me. "We can help you. First, you need a couple of bottles of port, some scotch, some bourbon, and some cognac…" I listened and I learned. Damn, this stuff goes great with cigars. I wasn’t doing it right, but the intervention helped me become a better cigar smoker once I had the right drink to go with my cigar.
Now, what to do with all of this alcohol… hmmm, I think I need a drink. I think I need to smell some good single malt. Yes, I need to taste it… Wait, this is more than a want or a desire, I have to have it.
I tell you, I have to have it!