I started smoking last night.
I guess technically you can say that I started smoking a few months ago but I'm not counting hookah. No, I'm talking about cigarettes. Real, can-totally-kill-you, addicting, tar-filled cigarettes. Smoking. You know, that thing that you shouldn't do -- yeah, I did it.
Call me a hypocrite. I already know its true. Doesn't change anything, but I accept it. Working in healthcare, berating relatives, scowling at smokers. I actually just had a conversation today with my mom about how cigarettes consume people. I'm a hypocrite. I don't care.
There's just something to smoking that makes it all worth it. I think part of it might be my slight masochistic tendencies: I dance because I love dance, but I also love the associated pain and injury. When I first picked up a guitar, I liked the way the strings bit my fingers. I like my coffee just a little too hot. I like my liquor plain and harsh. I like the way the smoke burns my lungs and the fire warms my fingers. I like the risk.
More so than just the enjoyment of smoking, I like how it looks. I think people look cool when they smoke. There's something very individualized about the way each person handles a cigarette. It fascinates me.
I like the bond that forms between smokers, cast outside to light up.
I like the looks from strangers, like I'm doing something naughty.
I like being one of those people.
I like being forced to take a break from life and step outside.
I like the way you can watch time turn to ash.
We're turning to ash too.
To your blog entry, smoking is [was] such a stress reliever [for me]. I used to smoke every week with my friends. Sneak out under the moonlight, ignite the ends of my marlboro menthols, and just stare at the stars in admiration. Dragons breath, that's what I liked to call it. Then I'd sneak back in through my window, shower in Febreeze, throw my smoke-scented clothes into the dryer with a dryer towel, and go to church the next day like a good boy. I was too a hypocrite. It would be a social thing; they called me a social smoker. Then, after time went by, I began to crave them. My mom would be screaming at me, I'd tune her out and be like, wow, I'd really like to go outside for a good ol' smoke. I could taste it in my mouth. Ya know, that dry sensation. I began to miss that buzz. The smell. The taste. The everything. I tried all forms of cigarettes: marlboro menthols, camel crush (so good), newports; then I tried quitting the "pussy cigarette" as my friends liked to call it, and I tried the big boy stuff: marlboro reds, camels (yuck), etc. You know what I love about cigarettes? It's the smell. When someone lights up a cigarette, my blood starts pumping, my nostrils flare. I love it. It's the smell it leaves on your fingertips, like a reminder. On your clothes. In your nostrils. Flushing out the stress, the "fuck everything" attitude. It's a puff, breathe in, coating your lungs with toxic pleasure, breathe out--dragon's breath. I haven't smoked in ages though, and I am proud of it. I started making it a habit, sneaking out and lighting up. Or "Going on a walk to the park." That was the past though, high school. Then my friends started driving, smoked in there occasionally. The thing is, I don't think I ever was addicted. I just liked it, I guess it made me feel "cool," which I must say is completely pathetic. But it's the truth. I hate it now, but I still LOVE the smell. And I must agree to the fact that it is a major stress reliever. And I agree with you, the way people hold a cigarette, it's an art. The different way people blow out smoke, an art. Smoke rings, that's totally an art.
ReplyDelete"We're turning to ash, too." Good line. Love that.