I fucking love smoking. From what I hear from, well, everyone, smoking is real, real bad for you. But, God! Oh, Jesus, smoking is so beautiful in so many ways.
I love getting that feeling of dark brooding and then knowing that I have a dear friend who will always brood with me. Who will smell horrible, who will envelope me in foul, curling smoke. It winds and sways with the wind. I feel sweet guilt the entire time that I’m inhaling the nicotine/rat poison cocktail.
Phillip Morris' little soldiers are always waiting for me at the mini-mart on 35th and Roxbury. I walk, talking on my cell phone to people I don’t want to know that I smoke and smoke and smoke.
The feeling of, oh yes, everything is going to be fine. Forcing me to do methodic breathing, but in the most ironic way. A deep yoga breath that is filled with foul and everything that I’m sure any yoga master would disapprove of.
I mean, what are commercial breaks made for? What are awkward social situations made for? What are long, hot lonely August days made for? What are walks around the block made for? What is legal, rebellious, bad for you and not allowed withing 25 feet of a public building? What leaves you with the linger of death in your mouth and single handedly removes every sweet smell from your hair and hands? What fits in your purse, allow you to play with fire and inspires drunken conversation with skeezy men outside of bars?
Smoking, of course. Smoking.
No comments:
Post a Comment