I have an addictive nature I refer to as Mr. Jones. An obnoxious destructive side of me that has led to heartwrenching bouts with thumbsucking, brownies and smoking. At the moment it is howling for a cigarette. Just to shut it up I light one but before i have a chance to smoke, my cigarette comes to life. I am serious, my cigarette sprouts a face and looks me right in the eye. I realize I sound a bit matter of fact but the truth is nothing at this point suprises me. My logical side says, "I can see when I'm not wanted," and flies out the window. Jones decides this whole morning is right up his alley and sets up camp on my left shoulder. My cigarette flys (you heard me) into my mouth and sticks. I can only compare my predicament to the time I accidently superglued my finger to my lip. The thing starts huffing and puffing emitting huge billows of blackened haze into the room. I can't breathe and am feeling rather ill. Jones, on the other hand is having a ball. He cheers and claps with such enthusiasm encouraging the cigarette to continue torturing me. Just as I am about to literally pass out the cigarette detaches itself from my lips and jumps into the ashtray. I ponder the significance of a cigarette turning on me. A raspy croaking voice emits from his ugly little face,
"Soo I see you like to smoke. Do you like it in your throat Will you smoke when you choke? Will you, will you with a goat?"
My logical side peers in the window with the most horrific face. I am not sure how to respond. I quickly piece what I hope is a decent rhyme together, take a breathe and blurt,
"I don't think I like this scene and I think you are very mean just go back to where you've been. After the mess you made is cleaned."
The cigarette begins to laugh. Great big billowing smoky guffaws fill the house with dangerous pollutants. The air is like a hot, still summer day in down town Los Angeles. The worry wart in me drags me back out the front door. The smoke behind me condenses and settles on the ground back in the form of the shadow. In evil little hiss he says,
"Soo I see you do not like the smoke. You do not like it in your throat. You don't like smoke when you choke. I think smoke just got your goat."
He shrinks into a realistically sized shadow of a fried egg. With a green flash he is gone leaving only a parting remark.
" Consider this a lesson about the hazards of obcessionr."
I hear my logical side in the distance, "that's it I quit!" I wonder to myself if my mother has anything to do with this. She has been bugging me to quit smoking for years.