Do The Cigarette Police Use Silver Bullets?

The above picture expresses the attitude I had the other day after I received a NO SMOKING NOTICE underneath my door from my land lady. As soon as I read it I lit up and took this picture in a fit of rebellion. I had it in my mind to continue to smoke in my room, anyway, as I always have, that I wouldn't let anyone change how I lived my life-long love affair with the evil brown weed. But as I've been doing so the past couple days, I'm becoming increasingly paranoid. There are sooooo many of my non-smoking tattle-tail neighbors who might tell on me. Every time I hear someone walking past my door out in the hall, I listen to hear them sniffing, to see if they can smell my cigarette smoke, and if they are going to rat me out. The point of smoking cigarettes is to enjoy them and relax, but how can I relax if I'm constantly wondering if the CigaReTTe PoLiCe are nearby? I'm getting too old for this "Smoking in the Boy's Room" crap and I want to quit, anyway, so fuck it-- starting today I'm only going to smoke outside. I'm also making a long-term plan to smoke no more than 1 cigarette per hour for the rest of November and December. Then in January I'll smoke no more than 1 every three hours until JANUARY 31st when I shall quit entirely. I've only been out of bed a few hours and so far this is driving me crazy.

The worst part about having to smoke outside is that I have to constantly put on and take off my fucking clothes to do so. I am always naked in my apartment. I can't bear the feeling of wearing clothes in my sacred, sanctified wolf den. I am so used to fondling my dangling, dancing wolf cock as I prance about my apartment with a cigarette in my hand and my junk in the other, that I'm at a loss what to with my empty hand now. So far all I've come up with to do with it is use it to fondle myself, too. So I've been sitting in my recliner, swatting my cock back and forth with both hands, waiting for another hour to approach so I can get dressed again, go outside and fucking smoke! When will this torture end and how will I get through the day? I'm so used to smoking while I work on the computer, while I watch TV, while I masturbate, while I cook and in between the eating of tacos, that I feel like I must completely reprogram myself. One of the worst things is that, while I'm painting, every so often I like to step back and look at the painting, gauge its progress as I smoke a cigarette, and I can't even do fucking THAT now! Nor can I chain-smoke while I pace around and brood about how I'm going to solve all my problems while listening to my favorite songs. It's driving me batty not to have a cigarette in my hand right now as I type this. I miss the falling ashes upon my keyboard and being able to flick ashes into a plate of half-eaten food from the night before. I miss sitting in my recliner smoking as the lit cherry tip falls off and onto my bare belly, forcing me to squirm in pain and catch it before it burns my fine curly pubes. There are just so many things I'm going to miss about smoking in my apartment that I'm really starting to wonder if I can do this.