http://www.bassdrive.com i can't justify my love for drum and bass music...

sputter and cough. cough again. oh burned down lung cilia how you mock me. i made it past 18 but I'm destined to tote around this cough until I die. but smoking's been there with me like depression and being attracted to boys who push me around. all of the boys had something that linked them to cigarettes. some wouldn't let me smoke... some would suffocate me with smokey apartments that made me gag. others shared some sort of intimacy with me when i had a filter pressed up to my lips.

i take a small sip of coke and set the glass down again. i used to sit around and smoke all afternoon waiting for Marc to come home from "work". Always that rabbit-heart beat hearing the door open... the very real fear of it being him with someone pointing a gun at his head and robbing the place. Thank GOD the only time it happened i was out getting groceries. polite fellahs too, they left me a note with directions where to go bring the money and a cell number. always the courteous little june cleaver i called them to see if they wanted a coffee. what? it's on the way over to the street car. A fine cup of coffee and a laid back chat they began to get a little out of it from the rohypnol until they finally slumped over and let me tie up their hands. I left a note with the money saying sorry and here's an extra hundred etc etc. marc was furious that i would leave them more since they were probably going to kill us anyway.
you know what? nothing. i saw the one a few months later and there wasn't any hard feelings. do you have any concept how hard it is to get that out of a goon? the dude told me that they lied about the doping and said they scared the shit out of us to get the money. none were the wiser. why murder a couple of clever fags when you're still coming out on top?
Still, when the door would open I would butt out my smoke and sit up waiting for the worse. what a life. it was always marc... sometimes drunk, sometimes sideways from all the freebie drugs, but that could only benifit me so i never broke into the screaming bitch routine. he felt like a puff of cold air crawling on top of me with cold cheeks smoothing over my face.
"You smell like half a pack of cigarettes."
"More like a whole pack. Good book."
"Quit smoking, it's a bad habit..."
He was kidding of course but I wondered if he was too out of it to fool around. Magic 8 ball says yes. He turned on his side to lay on me and warm up. his jeans pocket puffed out with a wad of cash and i spied his knap sack by the chair. why couldn't i at least date a rich drug dealer?
He was always chewing on his lip and i leaned over to get another cigarette. soon he'd pass out on me until i slipped out from under him to pick through his bag and rail up a bit of e to get inspired to clean the apartment a bit as he snoozed lightly. all this tied to the thought of smoking. how noble and wonderful to have drug-infused whistful memories and the knowledge that i could have better hobbies than chain smoking...but nothing's going to come close to it.