For a waitress, it's as essential to not killing someone as finding Jesus is to a death row convict. By that I mean it's the only thing that keeps us going through that never ending 10 hour shift on a Sunday morning.
We count every minute, each as infinite as the last until finally our manager/owner/superior says "Fine, go! But don't come cryin' to me when you get fucking caner, moron!"
Then, fumbling with the pack out of panic, excitement, a feverish need to put the filter in our mouths, flick a lighter or a match and catch the exposed end of the tobacco stick, sucking angrily until the delicious burning, mellow smoke fills our waiting lungs.
That first exhale hurts, but it's a good hurt; it makes the second puff sweeter.
After that first cigarette, nothing else matters, because I've finally gotten to fill my body with the nicotine it's been craving for the past dozen or so hours.
Do what you will after that first glorious cigarette, for it matters not to the Angry Waitress.