My inner smoker is a right bastard. He angers, inflames, and overturns the moneychanger tables of my brain so that he can monopolize my attention . I genuinely feel that my addiction is another being living inside of me, and more than anything else, he doesn't want to die. And right now, he's pleading like John Turturro in Miller's Crossing for his own pathetic existence.
Tough shit, Buster.