About 137 times a day I say to my girlfriend (who has never smoked, so has not a scintilla of an inkling of a tiny clue of what all the rest of us know and feel), I say to her, "Hey! How 'bout a damn good smoke right now?" Maybe I just finished washing the dishes, or watering the plants, or getting the BBQ all set up, or playing "Catch this, you dummy cats!" - a game for antagonizing furry friends involving bells and small plush mice on the end of a fishing rod, includes cardboard boxes with holes cut out of them, stairs, counters, shelves, and any other kind of tiny small dark places to drive cats bonkers by hiding bells in them - or maybe it could be any one of a thousand other different triggers where I have a brain that says, "Hey! Right on! Let's have a smoke! Bang on! Perfect time!" And so... on and on, I just have to accept it, accept that that's going to happen for the rest of my life because that's how my brain, the brain of a cigarette addicted once-again-new-non-smoker. (I am the modern Mark Twain of quitting smoking: "It's easy. Done it hundreds of times.") And so I say to her, "Yeah, let's have a smoke!" And then I say, "Ahh, maybe not now. Maybe later. Maybe in 10 minutes I'll have one."
And by that, I am here at Day 6, Sunday evening here in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam. Have a good day, all.