“Write drunk, edit sober.” -EH
Some people day that this is bad advice, those people are assholes. I’m very drunk, and probably won’t edit this sober.
It was my friend’s 24th birthday today and it was a lovely night spent at home involving friends, lovers, home cooked gnudi and tomato soup, and cocktails created by yours truly: a classic bees knees but with choice of gin or bourbon.
I’m quitting smoking, again, and I failed tonight with two cigarettes. However, how I smoked them was two different times in my life, even if they were only a few hours apart.
Cigarette #1: This was incredible. My mind was sated with a delicious meal and board games to come, alone outside as the solar fairy lights blinked on and off sporadically due to faulty wiring and below zero degree temperatures. I sat silently by myself on the porch and watch cars pass on the neighborhood street. I watched a couple hold hands and rush to their front door to laugh and kiss when they couldn’t get their keys out fast enough to keep the warmth of the car heater inside their pockets. I watched a greyhound-like man cross the street with the lankiest gait I had ever seen. I heard my friends laughing and talking inside as the warm light spilled out onto the porch. I knew they wouldn’t wait for me to start the game, and I didn’t want them to, so I could hear their laughter from a seemingly different world which I let spread into a smile. This way, I could fully enjoy their happiness without being part of it. I thought about teasing- how important it is as a social behavior from the people we love to teach us about right and wrong. To tell us when we are exhibiting undesirable social traits like arrogance and impatience, but delivered in a way that emotes love, even when poking fun at the most sensitive parts of our psyche. Teasing is important, and has taught me how to better myself without needing to be told directly (something I do not take kindly to). This cigarette was the best parts of life.
This cigarette I smoked out of restlessness. I was waiting for a certain name to grace my phone screen when I should have just read my fantastic novel and gone to bed. It tasted good, but it didn’t inspire me to think and write as cigarettes usually do, which is the reason I started smoking five years ago. I watched cars pass again but this time sadly, as if they were in no rush to get home to their loved ones. As if they were driving slower on purpose to postpone arriving at a sad destination when it was probably just because of the snow. This cigarette made me happy that I chose a life of scientific research rather then art or writing, so I wouldn’t have to look into the deeper meanings of life, so that I wouldn’t have to question whether feeling indifferent to things happening around me meant that I was wasting my time on earth, whether I was wasting my life feeling nothing.
I would rather feel heartbroken every day of my life than feel indifferent.
This cigarette was the worst parts of life.