I smoke cigarettes because who even am I?
It’s like a weird zen standing out on your back porch and smoking. It’s silent except for the buzz of tobacco rush that flies around in your head like mosquitos or bumble bees. “Jesus Christ” by Brand New plays in my mind, mashed up with Arctic Monkeys’ “Dance Little Liar” and Cracker’s “Low”.
I feel like I constantly have something I should be doing instead of standing out on the porch.
It’s been a long time since I’ve felt one hundred percent accomplished. When it’s not a paper to be written, or a rehearsal I have to remember to go to, it’s the long-term, “real life” things that I feel are constantly hanging over my head like a rain cloud.
Smoking is like an escape – but how do you tell people that without expecting laughs?
“Why DO you smoke?”
Probably for the same reason you get blackout drunk, or sleep with guy after guy, or go to a yoga class, or write in a diary or cut yourself or shoot up.
I am not the person you know when I smoke.
Smoking makes me feel raw, straight down to the bone, naked to the soul. For me, it’s like having a guy walk into your bedroom for the first time – they see all of your clutter or OCD, your tacky posters and sticky-note reminders. The way you decorate your bedroom is done in a way to make you feel so comfortable because, in my opinion, your bedroom is YOUR space that no one could ever dare to intrude upon or judge.
Smoking and having a guy enter my bedroom is like saying,
“This is me dude, take it or leave it.” (with a subtle “bitch” under my breath)
I smoke cigarettes because I don’t feel like myself – or the “myself” that I have given the world.
I smoke cigarettes because (in the tackiest, most cliché way) I seriously, undoubtedly do not give a single fuck.