I have to say, when I read that Boston may soon have a ban on smoking in the workplace, I got angrier than Mitt Romney in a hot tub full of Shannon O’Briens. I didn’t get angry because I’m a smoker — I quit two weeks ago. I got angry because, since I stopped smoking, I am just an all-round angry person.

Foolishly, perhaps, I have shunned the usual anti-smoking aids. No nicotine gum for me. No patch, hypnosis, acupuncture, psychotherapy. I quit cold turkey — which could explain why I’ve been shivering and making gobbling noises. And, as I mentioned, feeling very, very irritable. The other day, I saw an episode of SpongeBob SquarePants and found myself thinking, " Goofy gap-toothed motherfff! " And don’t get me started on George W.

" Try to distract yourself, " advises a Center for Disease Control (CDC) anti-smoking Web page. " Talk to someone. " Well, I’ve tried it. " Cigarettes, " I’ve been saying. " Cigarettes, cigarettes, cigarettes. " Everything these days is related to cigarettes: my mood swings, my inability to sleep, the stock-market slump. And when I’m not talking about not smoking, I’m reading about it. Right now, I’ve got my eye on a book called Escape From Nicotine Country: How to Stop Smoking Painlessly.

Of course, there is no way to stop smoking painlessly. Even the evangelists acknowledge that. " Some physicians compare the addictive qualities of nicotine to heroin, " warns one anti-smoking site, " but others maintain that for many people cigarettes can be even more addictive than heroin. " The site continues: " When rats were given nicotine for a week and then it was withdrawn, their brains registered a 40 percent drop in response to pleasure stimuli for periods lasting from several days to as long as two weeks. "

In other words, not smoking sucks. And so, naturally, I’ve been attempting to fill the pleasure-stimuli void in my life by shoving food into my face. When I haven’t got a Twizzler in my mouth, I’m gnawing on a chicken leg, and when it’s not a chicken leg, it’s a large Italian sub with extra pickles. According to the experts, the average smoker gains 10 pounds after quitting. In my case, you can make that 10 pounds per ass cheek. Hmm. Obesity causes heart attacks. Heart attacks kill you. Maybe I should start smoking again. Makes sense.

Yes, I know that this fat-worry is just one of the many exhortations an addiction will whisper into your ear: What about Al Qaeda? What use is a healthy set of lungs when you’re sucking sarin gas? And there are a million other concerns. The novelist Martin Amis once said that every time he quits smoking, he ends up writing sentences like, " It was as hot as hell. " What if that happens to me? What, for instance, does " madder than Mitt Romney in a hot tub full of Shannon O’Briens " mean? Will my newfound ability to run for a bus come at the price of terrible prose?

But I have to put such concerns aside. I have to stop. Not because butts are bad for me, not because they are bad for those around me, and not even because a week’s supply of smokes costs about as much your average lawnmower. " Write down why you want to quit, " advises the ever-helpful CDC site. Before I can do this, though, there is a single, fundamental question I need to ask myself: what the hell does " your average lawnmower " have to do with anything?

Damn, I need a Twizzler.