Smoke Excuse

I’m clinging to a laziness that can only be parallel to the proverbial boredom I’ve instilled. I’m a wretched disaster today. I came to work fully with the intention on giving it my all. I am currently working away the kinks that are my lifestyle. I don’t smoke but want to start. I wonder when I will fold. I understand that when someone quits the slavery of nicotine, they hate other smokers. Yes, smokers not the concept or the idea, the actual physical act and specimen doing the poisonous ritual. Then the complaint after complaint, you stink, it’s bad for you, it’s like kissing an ashtray, it’s unattractive, expensive, and whatever else made be materialized. I may smoke soon just thinking about not smoking. I was always a fan of smoking when I saw a no-smoking add. Take that,flick the bic, sharp and fire. First drag and inhale. Now I think I’m a rebel. Actually replace rebel with slave. Even when you quit you’re still a slave. You’ve just become socially aware in the idea that you don’t need to do the activity anymore. Nobody enjoys smoking except the first cigarette has some merit. I was a ritualistic smoker; I smoked when I turn the car ignition on or after a cup of coffee. I smoked because my sister told me that I couldn’t. She used my angelic, hallowed niece as bait to get me too quit. She would explain that I couldn’t see her or hold her unless I was not smoking. Come on now, that’s a damn dare. I then felt rebellious all over again. Smoking became rogue-like, dangerous, and sheik. I used the high-school cover up except I did not lower myself to use “Axe body spray.” I use Obsession for Men, which is not the manliest name for body spray. Obsession for Men. At least it’s not Perspire, Sweat or is not a vile containing the ingredients from the “bog of eternal stench” from the Labyrinth. I hid the smell of cigarettes with cologne, it has no effect like a lot of commercials depict. When I spray myself with cologne, I do not suddenly have to run for my life from the sex craved women all around me. No, they must have adapted, but I hear new formulas are being patented by the Food and Drug Administration. My fingers are crossed and I hope they don’t test on animals. When I apply the cologne to cloak the smoke, it actually provides two smells to make my sisters olfactory bulbs go haywire.

“Oh you smell like Obsession and Cigarettes?” She says. She knows the smell of both; she dated someone who used Obsession. Her and my mom both like the smell, I think I may switch brands.
“No…” I start to sweat, think of a quick lie, it will buy you sometime, I go through my logical excuse file in my brain (it’s next what was my ability to divide), use some classic such as I’ve had a stressed out day, I was at a friend’s house who smokes, and “…I was at a friend’s house who smokes.” Nice covers Agent Massaglia; you sly devil you I thought. I know she she’s straight through it but plays along.

It seems to work as a great cover, works a couple of times until the self-conscious and guilt enters the picture. So, I quit after awhile with help from chewing gum and my friend suggestion of I try a visual depiction that every time I smoke, I’m sucking Phillip Morris’ penis. Very distorted this friend of mine is and it made me feel uncomfortable. I have no idea what Phillip Morris’ penis looks like, but I don’t want to know. I’m sure it’s nice and frankly you should use it to go fuck yourself with it (I apologize for the language; I’m told that irritability happens to be a side effect of nicotine withdrawal). Inhale a drag of that. Well, my then appetite increased a bunch as well, a sudden shift from a chemical addiction to a process addiction. Then there’s “return of the king” casted as the lead role is my metabolism instead of Sam the Wise (I could play the fat one, call my agent). I learned that nobody wants to challenge someone who just quit smoking to a food eating contest, and if they dare challenge they will lose bad, so proceed with that as a disclaimer. If it were an Olympic event the challenger would have to be ashamed to return to their country with no medals. The ex-smoker will have won all three. For me, I was able to tackle whole large pizzas. Rome wasn’t built overnight but this pizza was devoured in one I would think. I was a real glutton for pies (still am). The way to my hurt is through my stomach. I get hunger pangs just thinking about it. I could gorge and dominate at buffets. It was magical and I began to compare myself to great big boned people, George Wendt, Chris Farley, John Goodman, and of course Peter Griffin. My belly even took on a new persona ‘Papa Smurf’, except it wasn’t blue. I thought I was the next Winnie the Pooh with less stuffing. I always wanted to be piglet because I’m short and afraid of virtually everything. I think piglets passive aggressive too, much like myself. I see the connection.

All in all, quitting has made things a little easier. I no longer need to smoke even though I always want to smoke. I eat constantly now so I’m watching my weight. Watching it grow. I’m wincing with excitement to see my niece without lying to others and myself. I don’t hate smokers, just the really attractive ones. I don’t taste like an ashtray anymore so when I get kissed, I won’t hear that complaint (at least I won’t hear that one). My clothes smell like gasoline spills and pizza delivery bags now instead of the latter combination and Marlboro cigarettes. The sad thing is though writing this has brought on a mega craving that can only be as sad as a homeless man at a mega church. I will go home to avoid this craving or stop by the gas station and add my five or six dollars to the slave ship owners and get back to inhaling black tar into my alveoli. So in all I go back to smoking with new and exciting justifications and dissonance. I have days where I crave cigarette after cigarette, almost neurotic about it. One drag I take my nicotinic receptors tells the rest of my brain that more tar is necessary to finish the job (which I have yet to be told about). I can run every other block now and could excel in a career as a professional cougher. I’m a social smoker and I talk to myself at times so I always am able to have some conversation while I smoke. The price increase fails to yield my purchases. It’s a ritual, a necessity to smoke, no brakes on this interstate. I have a sweet beard; it itches as much as my tolerance to nicotine. I hear that carrots help; I only like fruits and vegetables blended or pureed together though which is a messy and painful death for the gang of “Veggie Tales”. I don’t know the addiction to smoking in great detail much like my comprehension to Samuel Beckett’s “Waiting For Godot.”

The after taste is one of the worst parts of the addiction; nothing overtakes it except maybe toothpaste. When I brush my teeth I often forget how much orange juice and toothpaste hate each other and my taste buds tell my whole body it’s nauseous and needs a time to adjust. It’s not the greatest couple they just lack lack in cohabitation skills and should seek a marriage and family therapist to work on some solutions. It would be a messy court hearing. Both are extremely popular, toothpaste always has fresh breath and orange juice has quick bursts of energy; seem to bring on charisma through the whole day. They loath each other but need to look at their relationship as a business after the divorce. Smoking tastes horrible with each one it cheats with.

I started smoking in the 7Th grade; I wanted to impress a girl who was rebellious, attractive and a good looking smoker. My hormones were faster than Woody’s betrayal to Buzz Light-year in the movie “Toy Story.” I hope for smoking I don’t have a “too infinite and beyond” relationship. I don’t know if I heading towards heaven or hell but as a smoker I imagine there’s a no-smoking sign in hell and you can obtain the greatest tobacco leafs without tax in heaven. I’m not sure if there’s empirical evidence for either case but it can be debated by theologians and philosophers at a later time. I’m a product of my learned behaviors with smoking, a self-fulfill prophecy. The program called D.A.R.E. (I think it stands for Drugs are Really Exciting, I could be wrong though) educated us on the dangerous of smoking and how we will be outcasts left on a island of UN-cool, much like Piggy from “Lord Of The Flies.” Smoking became a part of socialization and I would drift towards delinquency. I accepted the social bond and attachment, deviance, and negative personal identity that was to be in the future. I worked on self-labeling skills and stigmas. I wouldn’t call it an identity crisis but a discovery, an experiment much like other teens, a way to look as cool as James Dean, Smokey Robinson, or Miles Davis combined. It helped me have characteristics of an extrovert. I thought when I smoke I spoke. Then I took to slang terms to describe my habit using questions and phrases like “Can I bum one or let’s go smoke a heater.” The last one confuses me and if literary done could cause significant damage to your lips and mouth. Anyways, she was cute and not really into me, much more sexually aware then I was. She enjoyed swimming in ponds with a heavy leech infestation that or she was in an abusive relationship with a suction cup. Her neck had more bruises than an American health care plan. I was hooked though to smoking and felt the rebel alliance overtake the empire when I was hiding around the middle school smoking with other smokers.

Later on in my career as a smoker I became a fan of smoking on the black tar path behind school, the teachers didn’t do anything because it wasn’t on school property. I had a few friends who would buy them for me, so at times I would resort to thievery and rummage through my mother’s purse. In her purse were a horrendous blend of tobacco and possibly pencil shavings. The first couple of drags tasted horrible, but once you get past the miserable gagging taste, the smoke was enjoyable. That’s when my taste buds go on vacation to Chang Mai, Thailand. They come back quickly have I’m done smoking or when I drink orange juice while smoking. Another bad combination is milk and a cigarettes, that is walking the plank and landing into a pool of angry and hungry accountants (it’s a numbers game and you would be out numbered and defenseless).

I remember when I successfully stole my first cigarette from my mom; it was on an air force base in Okinawa, Japan. Each roach isolated apartment had its own shed to put various equipment such as a lawn mower, clippers, three boys, and one cigarette. With two other friends Jamal, David, and I crammed into David’s shed and light the toxic creation. We each took a drag and started to gag and cough. We could have produced an obscure album of our coughing choir; it would have gone at least gold. My eyes turned red with tears and I fell to the ground into the fetal position. Suddenly we heard a noise, it was the screeching of the door being opened. There stood my mother towering over us with fire coming out of her eyes, she looked like one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse with a dress on. She was breathing heavier than a dolphin that just got dropped into Grand Canyon. If looks could kill I would be smoking in heaven right now. I received a strict punishment and vowed to never touch another cigarette again….time to need a smoke and have one. As an old friend of mine always says “I’m upright, semi-sane and able to take in nourishment.