It all starts rather innocently.
A young boy buys a pack of candy cigarettes. He uses his allowance money to make the purchase at the gas station down the street. When he gets out to the parking lot, he smacks the pack a few times, just like his old man does.
Between two fingers, he “smokes” his cigarette as he walks to the ballpark.
At the ballpark, his friends are waiting for him. The candy cigarette in his mouth is nothing but a stub now. He flicks it into the grass, just like his old man does.
At first, it’s just one or two sticks a day. Then before he realizes what’s happening, its one to two packs. He’s acquired a craving for sugar.
sugar…sugar…sugar…sugar…
As he grows up, it gets worse. He’s ducking out of class to go eat candy cigarettes under the bleachers. His grades start falling. He falls in with the wrong crowd. Candy cigarettes and energy drinks are shared and passed around by the dumpsters outside during the lunch period.
The sugar grows more in control of his life. Some days he can barely go an hour without it.
Sugar, sugar, sugar, sugar…
His brain has been rewired. It constantly craves that sugar rush. He quits school to work at the gas station he bought his first pack from. It’s the only way to get enough money to continue feeding his habit. Now, he’s got candy cigarettes at his disposal all the time, and an employee discount to boot!
Sugar, sugar, sugar, sugar!
His father, whom he emulated for the first time years ago, falls ill. It’s that awful C-word. The one that cuts like a knife. The radiation and the treatments don’t do any good. His lungs give out on him. Too much sugar.
This scares the boy, who is now entering adulthood. He’s practically a man. He tries to stop, tries to cut off cold turkey, but it doesn’t work.
His mood changes. He’s irrationally angry. His brain keeps screaming at him
SUGAR, SUGAR, SUGAR, SUGAR!
How is he supposed to do anything with his brain scre —
SUGAR! SUGAR! SUGAR! SUGAR!
He can’t even conce —
SUGARSUGARSUGARSUGAR!!!
He buys another pack. Just one, his last one, to ween himself off. Cold turkey didn’t work. He’ll drop back down to one or two sticks a day, and go from there.
The whole pack is devoured by the time he gets off work.
But at least his brain isn’t screaming at him anymore. It’s just whispering.
sugar…sugar…sugar…sugar…
Around two decades pass, and he’s continued his habit. Two packs a day. No big deal.
No big deal that is, until his yearly check-up shows abnormalities. Further tests show signs of that C-word. That horrible C-word. That awful fucking C-word.
It’s growing in his lungs, and it’s growing quickly.
That’s it. He has to quit now. It will be easy now that he’s dying.
He gets home and he throws all of his packs away in the garbage. He tries to watch some television to ease his mind. His brain continues to urge him, plead with him, beg him to concede in his efforts to quit.
SUUUUUUUGGGGGGAAAAARRRRRRRRR!!!
He goes to the trash can and pulls out one of the packs. It’s gone in an hour. Another hour, another pack. Another hour, another pack. It relaxes him, takes his mind off of the C-word.
His hands and feet are trembling, rushing from the sugar high that comes when you eat three packs of candy cigarettes in as many hours. The C-word starts creeping its way back into his mind. He reaches into the disgusting trash can for another pack.
He wants to quit. He wants so badly to quit. He’ll die if he doesn’t quit. But what does anyone expect him to do?
He’s been conditioned to want — no, need — these candy cigarettes his entire life.
And now? Society looks down on him, they view him as a lower class junkie. Only losers partake in candy cigarettes. Sure, candy cigarettes are legal, but they’re a drug. Not like the prescription pain pills that suburban housewives are popping like Skittles or the six pack that blue collar citizen downs in just a few hours. Candy cigarettes are a disgusting habit. Shouldn’t he know that they’ll eventually kill him?
Of course he knows.
He just can’t do anything about it.
He became addicted at a gas station three decades ago.
