A smoker's mind, at least this smoker's mind, has an acrobatic ability to rationalize.
Here's what I am thinking right now:
I am a better writer when I smoke.
I laugh more when I smoke.
I think more clearly right after a cigarette.
Hell, my grandmother smoked into her 90s.
I also think:
There's a rhythm to how I live, a beat that would sputter and die without smoking.
After a well-written paragraph, during halftime of another disappointing Minnesota Vikings choke-fest, after Dick Wolf's name fades to black, concluding another gripping episode of Law & Order: SVU, a cigarette keeps the beat. It's something to do between times. It's the metronome that keeps the song playing.
Of course, this is all crap.
But this is how my mind works when the body is screaming for a hit of nicotine.
I cannot allow empty time to pace and hand-wring like this.
Fill the time.
Occupy the mind.
That's all I can do, it seems, to distract the physical need for a cigarette.
Mindlessly, I just ate three or four pitas - I've lost count - slathered in peanut butter. Washed down with a Coke.
Strawberry ice cream waits in the freezer.
What's better? Smoking, or a peanut butter drunk?
Somehow, right now, the answer isn't clear.