My mind goes for a smoke before my body does.
It becomes a pressure just like holding *** if I don't fulfill the mind's intention.
The heart is silenced and prepared for the intake of nicotine even though I haven't moved from my place.
The social joys, the buzz, and relief of smoking circulate through my mind.
My back tells me it will be comforted by smoking, just like a teenager asking for car keys.
The part of me who doesn't want to smoke is portrayed as an over-worried mother, over protecting this teen.
The male aspect that wants to stop smoking is decided as the empty insurance salesman simply concerned with the money.
In other words he is seen as fake.
Next, the Natives remind me that tobacco is a sacred tradition given by White Buffalo Calf Woman.
"It eases tention," She says.
I think about the people I've influenced to smoke, and how others influenced me too.
I think how much more healthy Chloe looks now that she's quit.
My hip muscles now tell me a smoke will relax them.
I'm reminded of the lack of care of minorities by those who don't smoke.
I'm reminded of smoking comradery.
Of Native society centered on the pipe.
A tattoo of my newfound math problems: R^n.
And with this one distraction, all these thoughts of smoking combine and say: "okay, let's go smoke" as if tugging at my seat.
Yet I tie myself to my seat, I theory anyway.
Smoke or sleep? They try the either or question.
I'm staying up for another 11 minutes.
What will happen?
The friendliness of Nic does it to me again.
