Candy cigarettes, stress, and me…

So, I’m sitting at my desk… and I’m smoking.

You know, I’m old enough to remember the days when we smoked at work, when it was fully acceptable and, in fact, nobody would try to stop you from doing it. You would have an ashtray at your desk and you would smoke – all you wanted.

So, I’m sitting at my desk. Vicky recently gave me a pack of candy cigarettes. I have one in my mouth. And I’m smoking. I am tricking my brain into thinking it’s a real cigarette. I can feel the same rush of nicotine that you get from a real smoke. I’m a veteran of this kind of trickery; when I was a kid, I learned that pretending to eat popcorn at a movie actually made you feel full of popcorn. People say the brain is an amazing piece of machinery but I say it’s not that smart.

… mine isn’t, at least.

I have a stupid brain.

God dammit.

I needed a smoke because, all of a sudden, several minutes ago, all the stress of my week caught up to me. My dad’s sick. I’m starting school. I haven’t finished this book. I have a crazy family. My job is getting seriously difficult and these people still expect me to do it. And on and on. None of this makes me sad or depressed in any way – I’m actually quite satisfied (which is not to say that I don’t feel bad about my dad but I do feel satisfied in our relationship) – but it does irritate and I just wish for one minute things would stop. Just one minute each day. A pause. A breather. A moment where everything in the universe comes to a halt and we can experience the empty bliss of non-being. Then, things would start again and we could move on.

… could one of you work on that?

Meanwhile, I’m going to light another candy cigarette.