Recently, it came to my attention that I’m a quitter. There are very few things that I do as well as not doing things anymore.

As with most things that eventually render you a dysfunctional adult, it all started in my youth — more specifically, at Montessori preschool. All I wanted to do one afternoon was fingerpaint. I mean, my name is Cézanne.

Anyway, I had my little fingers coated in paint, all set to make a low-brow masterpiece for the kitchen, when my teacher brought over some napkins and told me to do a puzzle instead. I politely declined, but she really didn’t want to let the whole puzzle thing go, so I was forced to throw it on the floor and yell “NO!”, lest there be any confusion on my stance when it came to image reassembly. She gave me a time-out, refused to let me eat my snack, as in the snack I brought from home, and called my parents. It was settled: I was never going back to this place again. I mean, how could I, after that? So I didn’t. I quit Montessori.

And then there was soccer.

To be fair, there was also ballet, cheerleading, crew, and volleyball, but soccer was my first attempt at voluntary physical activity. If you know me today, you might not actually believe that I’ve ever interacted with a soccer ball, but there were three months there where soccer held a prominent spot on my calendar.

Despite my dissatisfaction because my cleats weren’t pink (strike one), I managed to suck it up and attend practice regularly. My dad started going to practice with me too, and he sent me running and told me he’d kick the ball to me. What he did instead was kick the ball at me. It hit me in the chest, knocking me over and the wind out of me. I mean, he felt terrible for mistaking me for an 18 year old seasoned player (strike two), but the damage was done. I decided that the only way I could keep playing soccer was if I could be a goalie, because after The Incident, this is what I looked like every time the ball came anywhere near me. But when I asked to be goalie for the first time, the coach confused me with another girl and said I should “give someone else a chance.” STRIKE THREE. So I quit soccer.

These seemingly minor withdrawals really set the stage for how I deal with things I don’t feel like doing anymore. These days, the second I feel the slightest annoyance with something, it’s out. It’s done. It’s over. Life is too short, right? My future children sure are in for a few good years of psychotherapy.

Anyway, the most recent proof of my admirable life philosophy is smoking cigarettes.

See, I quit smoking last July and the reasoning is twofold: First of all, they’re bad for me or something, I don’t know. Second of all and with a little more weight, they’re expensive and kind of counteract the whole overpriced perfume thing that, as a good consumer looking to kick start the economy one Burberry bottle at a time, I totally buy into.

But then I realized something: I don’t really like cigarettes during the day, but I do like to smoke when I drink. I like it a lot, in fact. Two weekends ago when you took two drags off your cigarette and tossed it to the curb, only to see some completely adorable girl with great hair casually pick it up and finish it for you? THAT WAS ME. So I decided that it’s completely acceptable to continue smoking cigarettes, but only if I have a drink in my hand.

So I not only quit quitting, but I now drink so I can smoke guilt-free.

What I’m trying to say is don’t send your children to Montessori.