Jonesing For A Smoke

It's all I can think about. Cigarette. Cigarette. Cigarette. This will pass, it will get easier, I tell myself. Thirty seconds later my hand involuntarily strays to the place beside the computer where normally sits a delicious tasty satisfying pack of Marlboro Mediums. Oh, cigarette. Carl gave me a ride home tonight and as we made the usual turn by the Stop-and-Rob he asked if I needed anything from the store. I demurred, though inside every fiber of mny being was screaming for a smoke.

But I shall not crumble, I will not cave. At least, not today. Oh, cigarette.