I Wish I Was a Smoker Part 1


            Sometimes I wish I could be a smoker. I tried for a little while, but I don’t like routines. Now I only have one after so many cocktails, and I don’t know the difference. 
            After a long night of drinking, I woke up back at my apartment wearing only an old Guns ‘n’ Roses shirt. There was a head crease in the pillow next to me. Suddenly I couldn’t remember how I had gotten home.
            He had left half a pack of Camels on my floor. I picked them up and grabbed a diet coke from the refrigerator.
            “What the hell,” I said and lit a cigarette.
            I turned on the television. My roommate had been watching Lifetime for Women last night.
            Click.
            Without realizing it, my weekends had become a routine: of whiskey, tears (salty cheeks) and unconsciousness. I think he liked me better that way.           
            I was sixteen once. Five years later I still didn’t know any better. He always took and I gave without the slightest hesitation. The half-pack of cigarettes were all he had left me with. I smoked every one by the end of the afternoon.
            I lit the last cigarette while lying on the floor staring at the ceiling and listening to a Joni Mitchell record. The carpet smelled of cheap beer and old footprints.
            I couldn’t sleep that night. The nicotine was controlling each heartbeat. I didn’t want to watch a movie or read a book so I went and sat in my car. I counted the leaves stuck in the left windshield wiper as I listened to the cries of other people’s unresolved problems.
            Hank Williams. Janis Joplin. The Smiths. Fuck, I hate Morrissey. What is this station? I turned my car on and started to drive.
            I remember being at a bar with him last night, I think. There had been heavy rain and I had no real desire to go out. The night becomes fuzzy from there.
            Half an hour had gone by and I realized I had no idea where I was headed. Also, I had turned off the radio. I reached my hand under the seat and grabbed a CD without looking.
            “Stravinsky?” I said aloud. “I completely forgot about my classical phase.”
            That lasted about three weeks. I wish I hadn’t smoked all those cigarettes

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