A cancer-causing fantasy kind of morning

It’s been kind of a rough morning, addiction-wise.  For some reason, ever since I started blogging/writing again, all I’ve wanted to do is chain smoke and there’s not a cigarette to be found in this whole damn house (and there hasn’t been since Memorial Day).  It’s actually getting pretty horrific, the jonesing.  Bad enough that I’m afraid if I leave the house for any reason today, I might end up tackling a smoker who’s just innocently trying to make his way down the damn street.  It’s not looking good for The Kid today, y’all.  She’s contemplating a full out, broad daylight wagon jump and when she lands, apologies are going to be the last thing on her mind (or her nicotined breath).  So anyway, I’m trying to hang on, but I’ve simultaneously got a healthy little fantasy life going on here.  Consequently, I’m thinking the following might be my totally sexy and not at all needy call to The Cigarette Smoking Man (who I can’t even picture beyond the coffin nail in his hand and who I therefore should probably not be naming after a beloved and elusive X Files character or talking to like he’s Cheech to my Chong):

“Heeeeeeyy, man.  How ya doin’?  Hey uh, uh…I know it’s a lot to ask, but man, sweet freakin’ JESUS I could use a cigarette.”

It’s good, right?  If someone said that to you, you’d be compelled immediately and unquestioningly to share your goodies.  And if you didn’t have any (if you–God forbid!–didn’t smoke), you might even walk into the nearest gas station and buy some just to give that very intelligent and well-spoken woman the thing she needs to get through her day.  After all, you care about your fellow man.  You live in the same small town and you know damn good and well that–no matter what you tell your whining teenagers on a Friday night–there’s really nothing else to do but smoke and drink (and fool around…as long as you’re married to the person you’re foolin’ with).  Plus, your mama raised you right and told you to do the next right thing and not be a judgmental bastard.  Just because you believe cigarettes smell like ass and that they might one day be the death of this obviously intellectually superior woman, that doesn’t give you the right to deny her her Bliss.

C’mon, man.  Give me a cigarette.  Come on.  Please?