Hello, my name is Ben Jones, and I’m an addict. That wasn’t too hard to say, although I think “addict” is a bit harsh. “Addict” implies that I’m willing to kill to support my habit, that I’m capable of stealing to sustain my high and that I would cheat my friends for a fix.

Addict is a term that should be limited to heroin junkies, crackheads and tweekers. So maybe I’m not an addict, per se. How about: “Hello, my name is Ben Jones, and I’ve got a nasty case of Winnie the Pooh complex?”

Pooh is the epitome of gross indulgence and addiction. His need for honey is unparalleled, and he is willing to do anything for just a little smackeral. He would gladly lie to his friends and tell them that he had none so he could have more for himself. He would also abandon any of his friends in the hopes of scoring a little bit more honey. Pooh is an addict. So am I.

I find it easier to call myself a “Pooh” than an “addict,” though. It has a nice, innocent ring to it. It makes me seem like less of a horrible monster and reduces my addiction to something trivial. But what does all this have to do with me? Well, it’s 5 a.m., and I can’t sleep because I want a Marlboro Red.

Unfortunately, I am out of cigarettes because I’m taking the term “broke” to a completely new level. We’re talking pennies and nickels here. I have lots of spare change that could probably be used to buy a pack of smokes, but two hours ago none of the convenience stores that are open this late in Ankeny would take my spare change. Those bastards!

So, I have no cigarettes, and I have no way of getting one. At 5 a.m., there is nobody around to bum me one. It’s panic time.

Have you ever spent time with a person trying to kick a meth habit or a recovering alcoholic? These people are always high-strung and nervous, completely edgy and about to flip out. Well, that’s me about now.

Isn’t that pathetic? Yet I can’t help my reactions or feelings. I’m hooked on a substance, nicotine, which I can’t even see with the naked eye. Nicotine has brought me to my knees — it has got my balls in its hand, and it’s starting to squeeze. The Marlboro Man is about to kick over the playing-card house of sanity in my mind.

I can remember a time when I swore to myself that I would never start smoking. After all, why would I purposefully give myself cancer and emphysema? Why would I risk the chance of going to the grave early?

At the age of 18, I had only smoked one cigarette in my entire life. Then I arrived at this university and started to party with a group of smokers. They convinced me to smoke one of those coffin nails every once in a while, and eventually these slight indulgences grew into a raging habit. I was hooked!

Now, nearly two years later, I smoke like a chimney. Packs disappear in a day’s time. There is hardly a moment when a Marlboro Light (I finally weaned myself from Reds) isn’t clenched between my yellowed lips. I’ve developed a rattling cough, and I never particularly feel good. Climbing up one flight of stairs leaves me winded.

But in the end, it is all worth it. Not only do I have something to do while I’m sitting around avoiding studying, but I have something that helps to relieve all of the stress that builds up in my life.

Cigarettes are a constant companion, one that never cares what I do wrong or right. Smoking is also like holding an ace — if life ever gets bad enough that I consider suicide, I can always fall back on the knowledge that my addiction is going to kill me eventually anyway. It might be more painful to die of cancer or emphysema, but somehow the mere thought comforts me.

And here I am without a cigarette to put me back to sleep. I have nothing to do but wait until the sun comes up and people start bustling. Then maybe I can bum one from somebody.

Wait! I see something from the corner of my eye. It has to be an illusion caused by a lack of nicotine and carbon monoxide. It can’t be! But it is. A half-smoked cigarette sits abandoned in a nearby ashtray. It’s stale and lip-smacking good.

Ben Jones is a sophomore in English from Ankeny.