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.
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