I would punch a stranger for a cigarette.

"Eff off, Kermit the Frog!"

 Yes, I really said that. He taunts me in an image my friend posted: Kermit the Frog is enjoying a (I'm assuming) long and delicious drag off a very sumptuous cigarette. Kermit doesn't understand what it means to want. He may have grown up in the bayou, Oprah Winfrey poor, but  he is now Oprah Winfrey rich and his plight is so far removed from that of Every Man. I'm jealous of a muppet. I'm angry at a muppet. I'm perfectly okay with this ridiculous notion. I'm downward spiraling into psychosis.

My daydreams are starting to borderline hallucinations.

I... Must... Rob... A... Store... I see no other viable options. I'm just going to stroll into a run-of-the-mill smoke shop with the casual air of one who is going to make a respectable purchase. I might inquire about the lovely display of cheaply made tobacco-smoking apparatuses. Or, hey, these dragon-hilted knives here, is that Toledo steel? No? Astounding, the craftsmanship is so exquisite I was fooled. At this point, I have lulled the shop-keep into a comfortable and relaxed frame of mind; all the better to attack. As nicotine crazed as I am, though, I don't have a real grasp on this faux-reality, and what I see in my head is not what is true. She suspects from the get-go, what with my shifting eyes, sweaty brow, convulsing shoulders, and side-twisted leer. Not to mention that I just told her to give me a cigarette, or some dip, or a snuff of anything, if she values her life. With the ninja-like grace her type is genetically geared for, an ashtray bounces off of my sweaty brow, I fall back, and my head knocks the ground... I eventually come to, naked, and in the gutter.

At this level of lunatic craving, even my daydreams have decided to wage a war against me. I can't win!

There must be something I can do, right?! Sure. I tried coffee. Maybe if I drink enough coffee, I'll forget I need a cigarette. Mmmm, caramel and chocolate and whipped cream and a couple splendas. This coffee is going to be such a cup of coffee that all my other wants will just melt away... A pot and a half, and a thousand pacing steps, later finds me scratching at my face while staring in the bathroom mirror asking my reflection why a raven is like a writing desk. He can't answer me. Or he won't. Bastard.

I should go for a walk! Yes, excellent, do it. Give into the ebb and flow of muscle contractions. Repetitive motion should elevate me to a zen-like state where I can hide from the realm of fear and addiction. After about twenty minutes I have a lovely and steady motion. My head is lifted, and my spirits almost are as well. I keep my walk residential so as not to tempt myself to bring my daydreams into fruition. Phew, crisis averted, I sideswiped today's craving! Not entirely. I look down for a fraction of a second. My willpower, which I was just congratulating on being so Herculean, has suddenly crumbled into groveling Gollum status. There is half of a perfectly good cigarette resting in the street. I stop dead in my tracks. I can't believe it. What luck! I can ease my craving! My delight wanes as a realisation dawns: that's effing disgusting. My feet are cemented down as I zombie-stare at this cigarette in the street. Telling myself how sick it is to pick up a stranger's smoke from the middle of the road does not kick-start my feet into motion, though. I really want it. Why can't I have it? Is a fiber-glass filter a suitable breeding ground for bacteria? Can I catch a disease from this cig? I have an amazing immune system, I try and convince myself. It's been years since I've been sick. At this moment, I would love to tell you that it is due to my deep pool of sensibility which drove me away from this devilish temptation. It's not. I sincerely feel I would have walked into the street and picked the cigarette up. To Hell with the neighbours who might recognise me. To Hell with them because I am already in Hell! They don't know. Embarrassingly, the reason I don't pick up this delicious token of God's grace for the broken is simply due to the fact that streets (I had forgotten up to this point) are paved as such for motor vehicles. I snap-out of my stasis as a large truck squashes both the stick and my hopes of smoking it. A thousand anticipatory synapses cry out for vengeance. Instead, I head home forlorn and on the verge of tears.

In a last ditch effort to control myself, I lock myself in the bathroom with my 3DS and play some Minish Cap while resting on the toilet. An hour later, with sleeping legs and a simultaneously frenzied and wearied mind, I emerge from the restroom, defeated. When will it all end? Should I ask my sister to bum a cigarette from one of her coworkers tomorrow?! No, that is repulsive. Cigarette in the street? No, not as repulsive because it is in the privacy of my own company. To explain to another the level of deprecation you're going through is a more harrowing idea than that of actually never smoking again. It removes any silly rationalisations you've been unknowingly conforming to.You have to go through this, eventually, Chris. You've always said you were going to quit. You always knew it wouldn't be easy. Be thankful it's being forced upon you because you see now you'd never be able to do it on your own.

Wait a second. My bag. My courier bag. The one I carry with me everywhere I go. Oh, yes! How could I have forgotten?! There is a side-flap which contains quite a few of my put-out cigarettes (I am loathe to litter, so yes, I'd much rather place it in my bag than the street.) I know there happen to be a few Zig-Zag rolling papers in my bag as well. Halle-effing-lujah!!! I snatch some burnt butts and a rolling paper. I am back in business! I squeeze out the old tobacco from three butts and form a nicely sized pile. Placed strategically on the paper and rolled with finesse, I have in my hands the power to quell my craving. Yeah, I'll quit. Yeah, I have a better taste of what that will be like... But I'd much rather have a taste of this.