Transience and Loss of the Early Days

Thumb slides over smooth medal surrounded by rough edges, hits pedal of plastic. Sllliiittthh, a flame. Ssssss, the paper ignites, tobacco is caught, smoke puffs.
I don't like the taste, it scorches my taste buds, severs the sensation of flavor, but I do it, though I know the potentially tragic consequences.
I hide out from regular shit on these breaks, these occasions where the cloud of smoke replaces the proverbial cloud in my mind, that little black rain cloud that's followed me circa the era I wanted to watch Winnie the Pooh.
I think back to then, sipping a diet coke, like my mom in her '96 black Dodge Intrepid, cig hanging out the window, Macarena or Jelly Head on the radio. My dad was always at work, I barely knew him then.
I'm still young, but I'm old enough to know how messed up the world is and how little I actually know. And I know that I already have a wealth of knowledge more than some people will ever gain in their lives, which frightens and saddens me more than anyone could understand. Ramble on, babylon... 
I used to say I'd never touch a cigarette, save alleviating a mosquito bite's itch on my leg when the nail cross didn't work. I used to memorize bible verses for paper play money at youth group. I used to be a good girl, g.p.a. built way above William Penn's hat, but after the skyscrapers anyway.
Addiction is a funny thing, something I don't understand. It's a personality I don't think I possess; I'd say my apathy and impulse are high, and I do as I please as long as I'm not negatively impacting anyone else.
At risk of sounding mellow dramatic, my Gen-Y, self-absorbed, prophetic train of thought wants to leave with this:
If anyone ever asks my advice on anything, I say, "follow your heart." I don't often pray to God, I vibe with the universe. When I think it, I wanna run it by someone, just to see if they agree.
If I didn't, it could never mean anything to anyone.

Entertain Us

"It's fun to lose and to pretend

She's over bored and self assured

Oh no, I know a dirty word"

I'm driving home the long way to puff on a stoge, the $5.16 Maverick menthol 100 bitters my mouth, accompanied by an already miserable demeanor. I turn up the radio, Cobain's voice comes like from the grave, a warning against the way he went, or at least that's the message I get.

"Hello, hello, hello, how low?

Hello, hello, hello, how low?

Hello, hello, hello, how low?

Hello, hello, hello?"

I start to sing, and really belt out each word, not screaming, but in a way that volumes fill my lungs and reverberate off the strained chords in my throat, the cardboard vocal box almost spent from taking so much shit. This can only happen, this strong wind of melodic breath backed with more feeling than an opera singer sustains, when I am there. That place where there is no money in my bank account, no gas in my car, and no pay check in sight. 

"I'm worse at what I do best

And for this gift I feel blessed

Our little group has always been

And always will until the end"

I saw my brother's play at my former high school earlier in the night, and memories of my own sequin studded seemingly professional stage escapades empty into my mind. Teachers chatted; I felt the need to explain my plan of action, or lack there of, and as usual, it came out as defensive and pompous at the same time. I'd delve into the dialogue, yet I cringe at the thought of my pierced punk-ass hipster roadie influenced (and maybe under the influence,) appearance conversing with people who impacted me so much. I feel I'm failing them, but I don't think I'm failing me.

"And I forget just why I taste

Oh yeah, I guess it makes me smile

I found it hard, it's hard to find

Oh well, whatever, never mind"

The guitar wails, vibrating through my car stereo speakers and into my veins, tendons, ligaments. I'm one with the strums, elongated on the amp "Teen Spirit" was recorded on. The weather warming up, and I can drive with my windows partially open, enough to smell something other than cold. I'm sucked back to senior year, and the wild feeling of nervousness and abandonment that sent me balls to the wall; drinking, smoking, staying up too late--things that are normal to me now. And I knew where I was going then; to college. Four years later, the feelings mirror my 18-year-old mind's jaded thoughts, and talking about it is pointless. Because there is no talking about it. It's only a sense. Or an interpretation. Or a feeling. Or a song. Or "It Smells Like Teen Spirit."