|
When I first heard about Chantix, the stop-smoking wonder drug, I felt like a long-awaited dream had come true: the dream to finally quit the nasty, antisocial, dangerous habit that had enslaved me for 15 stinky years. Little did I know this dream come true would inspire a series of other dreams, ones laced with talking vegetables, evil siblings, and twisted celebrity sex adventures that I wouldn't be able to purge from my brain with an electrified brillo frontal lobe scrubber.  "This is my last cigarette ever, I swear." I started taking Chantix in May to theoretically be quit by June before I started a new job. Nothing breeds respect from your new employees like sneaking out for a butt every hour, so I figured this new job was the perfect opportunity to take Chantix for a spin. I'd also been assured by a pharmacist friend that the side effects were minimal and that I'd quickly get used to the nausea and gas.  "Street-legal in Canada. Thank you Socialism!" Around the time I started adjusting my dosage to find the proper level, I ran into a girl outside of a local club that had just quit quitting, in true hardcore smoker style. When I told her I'd just started Chantix, she chortled and proclaimed, "I hope you like nightmares every night!" But I wasn't scared. I love nightmares every night, bitch. Sometimes during naps, too. So there. | ||||||||||||
|
|