There is one thing I’ve learned in my pursuit to quit smoking. I’m never going to quit. I could go 24 hours, I could go 24 months, but at some point only known by God and Lucifer, I will take a another puff of a cigarette. It’s an inevitability, and strangely, I’m okay with that. Call it lowered expectations if you want. I could care about your opinion. It’ll happen. I’ll be stressed or maybe cozied up to a bottle of Wild Turkey 101 or a thousand other possibilities. There will be Satan, dressed up as Tom Waits in a three-piece suit, leather suspenders, and bowler. Or more likely Satan will come to me in a little black dress with some stiletto heels, Either way he’ll gladly hand me the cigarette, but the bastard will make me light it myself. He can’t force you to do anything, only present the opportunity.