I Haven't Coughed In Weeks

I've succumbed to peer pressure, once again.
I can't tell you exactly why I've quit smoking, it's just that most of my friends don't smoke and I want them to think I'm cool.
As luck would have it, I'm quitting during the worst heat wave in the history of the world. The cocktail floating around in my brain right now, the mix of residual tar and nicotine and filter fragments all seem to come together in one giant weighted mass right in the center of my cranium. Then they all separate and go in different directions, seemingly bouncing off my eardrums and the back of my eyelids until they all come together again and make a bowling ball right at the top of my spine. Fortunately, the weather has turned itself into a giant, steaming wool blanket wrapped around me all day long. I've no energy but I can't sleep. I'm always hungry but I've no appetite. I can't think straight but my mind bounces around all day in hyperactive spasms. I feel like shit.
This quitting thing seemed like a good idea at the time. Everyone else was doing it. The thing is that, once you quit, it's so hard to start.

It all happened like this: Three events back to back put me in my present predicament. I know, they say it comes in threes.
At market one day, I got into a conversation with a friend about squash blossoms and their various culinary uses. We both leaned toward a squash blossom at the same time for a little whiff, then she pulled back, looked at me, and said, "Oh, you've been smoking cigarettes." But what she was really saying was: you stink. Hair, clothes, hands, in fact, your entire entirety, stinks, and you don't even know it.
Needless to say, that alone would not have been motivation to quit.
The next day, I'm over at T* & S*'s house. T* has just quit, and he's using the patch. He's sitting on the sofa, telling me all about the patch, and he's got this little package of patches on his lap. "See," he says, "this is what they look like."
"I'll try one of those," was my immediate response. "Gimme a toke offa that."
The third factor is a bit heartbreaking. The next day B* came over, and as is (was) our usual habit, we immediately lit up. We're just sitting in the shade at the edge of the fields, chatting and smoking, when I* shows up from outta nowhere. He sits down next to me. B* and I are inhaling and exhaling and spitting and inhaling and exhaling. You know. Then I*, sitting in the grass in the same posture as I, makes a big show of turning away and spitting. Then (get this) he looks at me with a wide-eyed expression of I'm just like you!
Not having a hole to crawl into, I decided to quit, instead.