Something horrible has happened. I know this because the carton of cigarettes I had as of April 1st is already gone. Which means, therefore, that at least two horrible things have happened: the one that caused me to smoke so much and the fact that I am now out of cigarettes.
For the past few months I’ve managed to make it through a month on one carton of cigarettes. This is not for health reasons. I could give a damn about that. Believe me, the damage being done to my body by cigarettes is as nothing compared to the damage being done to my body by the actual living of my life. In fact, I consider my smoking something of a public service: without it, I would surely live far past any reasonable expiration date and I am fairly certain to become either a burden to the state or a burden to those trying to walk down the street unaccosted by beggars and bummers of smokes. So, there.
But, that aside, HOW DID THIS HAPPEN? It is not even the fifteenth. I can’t remember anything more horrible than usual happening in the past few weeks (that is a lie, actually, but I am not at liberty to speak about the heinous psychic, spiritual, and social media attacks to which I have been subjected – I’m trying to stay my version of “positive” – which means, I have not as yet fellated a revolver to exudation – and I am NOT just talking about the way in which “SMASH” has devolved into a piece of useless television shit).
So, okay, maybe there was a reason. But, how did I manage to smoke so much? I have to sneak around to indulge. Don’t want the impressionable in my life to witness my addiction. And there is virtually NOWHERE one can smoke in peace in public any longer. Yet further proof of the way in which society has deteriorated since I was a wee thing, underage and openly sharing cocktails and cigarettes at New York restaurants with my dear, departed aunt. The current situation is shocking; as Fran Lebowitz so aptly described in her essay “When Smoke Gets in Your Eyes . . . Shut Them”:
“The present situation that I speak of is the present situation that makes it virtually impossible to smoke a cigarette in public without the risk of fine, imprisonment or having to argue with someone not of my class.
“Should the last part of that statement disturb the more egalitarian among you, I hasten to add that I use the word ‘class’ in its narrower sense to refer to that group more commonly thought of as ‘my kind of people.’ And while there are a great many requirements for inclusion in my kind of people, chief among them is an absolute hands-off policy when it comes to the subject of smoking.”
Amen, Fran. Besides which, pretty, sexy, fun, witty, and dangerous people smoke. Look:
Need I say more?
The thing is, I don’t recall being especially pretty, sexy, fun, witty or dangerous in the past twelve days. Which leads me to the only possible conclusion –
ONE OF YOU BITCHES STOLE MY CIGARETTES.
I briefly entertained the notion that I might stop smoking. Again. I also, once, briefly considered heterosexuality. While I have managed to imitate said behaviors, both ran contrary to my nature, failing to adequately satisfy my oral fixation and were, therefore, un-fulfilling. Thus, that’s a no.
In addition, my birthday is just days away, an occasion which this year required that I renew my license and seeing that it would be another six years before I was legally bound to do so again, such is my hatred of having my photo taken and sharing my weight with the state, I have determined that I will die before my next scheduled trip to the MVA. So, you see, I can’t stop smoking now.
So, if you can’t find me, it’s not just that I am ducking lawyers, bill collectors, and people in general; it’s that I’ve snuck off somewhere to have another cigarette – well, that is, as soon as I’ve sold a pint of blood so that I might buy the extra packs needed to get me through the month.