Jaw clenched, heart racing and that ache is starting in my cheeks. Soon the head will ring with bad euphemisms.
I can't write, that much is obvious. Intoxicated by a lack of stimulants, I can't focus. But I'm high, that much is certain. It's not pleasurable.
The sentences are even choppier, much like my thoughts. Fragments of doubtG?I get an e-mail. Something to do. Move the arm and push around the mouse. My limbs are cold'more oxygen than usual.
I'm going to fail. Stories to write and a project about an uncle of the modern conservative movement pipe a funeral elegy, clasping a light and a Camel. Here kid; you know you can't function without it.
No, I'm going to beat it'this time for good. But they're oh so delicious. The taste will always linger long after my lungs expel years of scarring.
The sweet nectar of R.J. Reynolds' fruits; they never told you how addiction really worked. It was just: don't smoke; don't smoke. But when the ashtray is full and lungs beg for mercy, I understand.
I'm going to fail and waste an entire day simply because I could not muster the fortitude to do any real work.
I go running that night down dark lanes under tree canopies. The black ground polluted with faint pools of moonlight that shines through overgrown oak trees. I'm feeling good.
I eat my fifth meal that day: a midnight quesadilla. Eating and running replace smoking.
The second day I wake up late, but again I'm feeling surprisingly well. Hours later I try to write a story and I realize just how much I need that heart-racing inspiration.
I can think clearly, write clearly and can do something with my other goddamn hand when I'm questioning a reluctant source on the phone.
I digress, but the love affair will never end. Even if I do succeed in conquering the addiction, I'll never forget.
I treat a coworker to cheap beer that evening after he submits a long-researched article. The beer was well deserved. But it starts again. The crawling skin, heavy limbs and lifted chest'an unusual combination.
It spurts in waves, and I ebb in the white water of dependency. It's too much. I'd kill for a light.
People are laughing back in the newsroom, their piercing joy crushing my head. I'm dizzy. Just shut up! Deep breath. OK, back to writing.
Nothing left because the silo is drained. I'm going to fail. The two beers were too much and I know I'm going to consume more. Maybe I picked a bad time and maybe I'll try again. God, I love smoking. ' Sean M. Gaffney is the Editor In Chief of The Summer Post and eventually going to quit smoking before the end of the summer. He can be reached and offered smokes at sg245204@ohio.edu or 740-593-9867
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Sean Gaffney
