Disappointment Comes With the Territory

If I were to ask you which hand I smoke with,

Left or Right,
I have a feeling that we would both be disappointed.
You,

For getting it wrong,
And me,

For realizing you don’t know me

As much as I wish you did.

XOXO

Short Words, Big Feelings.

For the first time today, I did not go directly out and have a cigarette after seeing the evidence of your indiscretion uncover itself, strewn so completely out in front of me like a particularly gruesome triple-homicide.

I waited three hours. Then I sucked two down in a row.

Shaking in the numbing night air, I opened up my mouth and felt the wind rip it straight from my lungs. And for the first time, I could actually feel it killing me.

XOXO

The All-American Nomad's College Life, Excerpt 6:

"Dick"

Addicted. A-d-d-i-c-t-e-d. Note the sound that when said aloud clearly states “dick.” Because that’s what’s happening. You’re getting fucked. Hard.

I’ve pulled my jeans on, cuffed the bottoms, slid into my Uggs, fished my gloves and lighter out of my purse, and just barely wrapped my insistently questing fingers around the small cardboard box before my mind can catch up and put two-and-two together and register what’s happening. One moment, lying in bed, reading a mindlessly good escapist novel, snug and warm. The next, slammed by a want—no, a need—that has me moving faster and more surely than love, or money, or fear or any combination cocktail of the three has ever made me move before.

I sit down on the edge of the bed, hard. Two months from now, April 1st, will mark my two-year anniversary as a smoker. A year and half smoking Djarum Black cloves exclusively, and no overwhelming wants or needs. A casual smoker, as casual as a casual lover. A few times a week. I liked the process more than the end result, the inhaling and exhaling. Two months smoking these fucking, godforsaken, piece-of-shit, nasty-ass Camel Lights, and I’m reaching for the box like an expiring narc-fiend. I’m on the balcony with them every night like an illicit tryst, rain, cold, or clear skies. I’m spending 20 of them like I spend 20 dollars—quickly and with ruthless efficiency. On the way to classes. In the morning with my espresso, one bitter complimenting and cancelling the other. With a glass of wine before, after, or even during dinner. If I got for a walk, they’re in my pocket alongside my cell phone, which I would rather bear losing.

Mingling with the incessant and growing need is another emotion—disgust. Self-loathing. I, unlike some, am not too proud to admit my shortcomings as I momentarily contemplate quitting, and meet self-resistance to the thought and the realization that I can’t.

Chimney. Ashtray. Butt-stubber. Ash-flicker. Grinding filter between shoe sole and sidewalk. Leaving a trail of discarded stubs like a perverse Gretel. Filling the same lungs that fought with me for the first nine years of my life, already inherently weak. Go ahead. Hurt them more.

Like I said a mere month ago, and not in any sort of self-servingly pretentious or morbid deliciously snarky way, smoking is slowly committing suicide, one cigarette at a time.

Addict. I am a victim of myself. Dicked. Deep.

I resign myself, right now, right at this very second, that the day I hold my graduate school diploma and master’s degree in hand will be the day I enroll myself in a quitting program, flush the remainder of the pack, and invest in some Nicotine patches.

For now, though, I reach back over for the hastily discarded pack and count. Three left. Thank god I bought a new pack this afternoon.

XOXO

Better Than Pleather.

"Spinning in circles, halfway down our road to Nowhere, I smoked a bowl in shiny moonlight, bright as a newly-minted nickel, while thick snowflakes fell on me, making temporary homes on my hat and hair and shoulders until they dissolved into me, like reverse tears. If you haven't had this same experience, I highly recommend it to you.

I run my headphone wires through my hands, again, and again, and again. Literally, I am weaving sound between my fingers. I get stoner's cramps doing this; those aches you feel and can't be sure if they're real or not. In exchange, I am fertile ground for words; sentences; commas; the loving ampersand.

It's intense how people nest. Nearly ridiculous when you think about it. We collect and collect and collect to decorate what is only fleeting and temporary. For what? Comfort? Purely sensory. Even in my most aesthetically-pleasing, controlled environment, without internal peace of mind, none of it matters.

We build our emotional houses shoddily, and then wonder why drafts chill us to the core during the first signs of harsh winds.

Weather. Withstand. Dig down. Find what is missing within, and then release that beast in all of its' unrighteous and fully mortal petty glory. There is no shame in admitting loss and want, other than the shame we put on those emotions ourselves. There is no more human feeling than want; when you embrace it, it no longer hinders-- it becomes a building-block of character, if answered.

A conversation on wants will always be harder then it seems when talking to just yourself. Buck up. Practice saying "I want..." to your own shocked face in the mirror.

Blessed are those who want openly, for they are the ones who stand to inherit. No silent need was ever filled, unless you have psychic friends, that is. And if you do-- don't talk to me about it. Some of us are trying to evolve, here. We're throwing things up here with reckless abandon. It's like a shout in a dark tunnel-- Hello, can you read me?

And how can something that feels good be bad? Makes utterly no sense. Control is the issue. Everything is fine until it looses itself from the leash of Control. Keep it tight to you, like a dog, straining and baying at the cat, and you're good, if not utterly satisfied, save the noise. Life has an expiration date. Might as well make it as interesting as you can before it curdles."

Full Disclosure: Though I was never a S.W.E.D, there was a period (read: solid year+) in my life where I smoked heavily. Tweaker Tuesdays and Weed Wednesdays were celebrated like Naked Tuesdays were this past summer. Anyway, long story short, I quit, cold-turkey, in May. Nearly eight months, and then, another long story short, moving, the stress of finals finally (hahaha, bad puns,) being over, and the daily, unrelenting grind of moving back home for break+month made me take a running swan-dive off of the wagon like an Olympian who could taste the gold. (I could have just said "Michael Phelps" and got the gist in there through popular culture and innuendo. Damn. Almost too easy.)

It was borderline disgusting how easily it all came back. The first time, much to my dismay, there wasn't much of an affect. Last night, however, I took it straight to the face, like a noob. Like someone who had waited eight months; eagerly, anticipating, foaming at the mouth with want. As I suppose with any alcoholic, you don't know how much you've missed and wanted it until you have it again. And then-- lord. Lord, lord, lord. I don't know if you've ever denied yourself anything for solid months. (If you have, tell me about it. I'd love to know about your experience.) But for me, it was like the culmination of all the best times before, all rolled into one bowl, with all of the philosophy and feeling, and none of the paranoia or freak-outs. It was nirvana. It was purely sensory and totally existential, all at once.

One of the things that always remains the same is that when I'm in that state is that I always am up for writing and philosophizing. During my heyday, I engaged in one of the most philosophical conversations I've ever had. It was, I shit you not, about pleather. I don't remember specifics. I just remember sitting in a friends' living room and arguing-- passionately, defending my points, making clear and concise reasoning-- about pleather. PLEATHER. Imagine what I can do with solid material.

Last night, after engaging in one of the coolest experiences of my young life (immortalized above), I put myself down to bed with a rented copy of the movie "Into The Wild." Stunning. Awe- and thought-provoking. I absolutely require the book to further my generally happy existence. Knowing myself well, I had a journal and pen handy. Sure enough, I had to move it from the nightstand to beside me in bed because I kept having to pause the movie and reach over for it, time after time, after time. Blatant laziness, made worse by the night's activities, demanded as little movement as possible to keep the creative juices flowing. And so, I give you these small and relatively insignificant tidbits, though still worthy enough to provoke enough thought in me to make me feel they're worthy of post-age. Enjoy. And may you find equally liberating release.

XOXO