Long story short:

I can’t recall the year that I stopped smoking — I just stopped: No method to the madness.

I have agoraphobia, or had agoraphobia, until this week. Now I’m spending hours and hours and hours outside of my apartment: Little method in the madness.

Many of my neighbors who sit outside, under our ridiculously large portico, smoke. I bummed a cigarette on my first day out. Then bummed more.

I bought a pack to repay those from whom I’d bummed.

Like an idiot, I kept what remained in the pack and I’ve smoked 2-3 per day for four days. I awoke this morning and, before my shower, smoked another.

Okay.

I have neuropathy in my hands and no feeling. I have severe arthritis in my hands. I cannot hold on to a cigarette. They fall from my fingers 7-8 times when I smoke and I refuse all help and bend my legless body to pick the fallen cig from the concrete.

I have. No. Business. Smoking. The habit was responsible for the deathly physical illnesses that I know enjoy.

But I am so delighted — so bloody HAPPY — to be outside, again, and if it’s among smokers, so be it. I think that I may equate smoking with happiness. Several of my neighbors, those who knew me previously to my hermithood, are aghast.

I’m confused about what I should (try to) do.

Any suggestions?