For a very long time now, well, an eyeblink in geological terms; no wait, a mudslide in geological terms? An eyeblink in biological terms. A ring stained in wood, in botanical terms. In relative terms, a dead uncle. In inverse cosmological terms, an eternity. In terms of vague understatement, for a while.
For a very long time now, there have been no reasons. Well, then I see no reason to start having them now. I have no truck with reasons. I don't need to explain my reasons. I don't cotton to those. You're not the boss of me, but you are pretty boss I must admit, and I need to do a better job frankly. No reason. It just feels like it. Not even I feel. It feels.
I am going to go worry some people. I will use fingers and possibly lips, and possible a soft brush of some kind for a delicious variation in texture and sensation. I will worry them deep inside. I will worry them at their borders, at their edges, at their fringes and see if they fray. If they do, I will claim the fault for the idea, and vice-versa, and I will refute each of those claims, and I will do it easily, each in turn. See what they have to think about that! Feel what they have to taste about that. Hear what they have to stink about that. Smell what they have to say about that. Halitosis, you see, and synaesthesia: an unbeatable combination you can't get anyplace else but the human brain, or so we perceive dimly, as if through a looking twice. The human brain: a miracle of Intelligent Evolution, now on sale for a song, for a steal, for what that and a cup of coffee will get you, which depending on the steal could be fine, imprisonment, I don't care.
There have been no reasons since I gave up that last cigarette, and the one after that, and the one after that. Technically, what I'm giving up is less the cigarette than the butt. Are you surprised that I would give up the butt? I couldn't help it. My health was at stake. To be honest, what I miss now was that smooth, relaxing, satisfying flavor. And you could say this whole thing may have gone South, and not even ventrally - which would not be so bad, which could be lovely depending on one's pet taboos and the disparate acts and personal variables of persons and attraction-math that all add up (as far as you're concerned) to the magic number 144 on your personal scoreboard: gross! That's right, and you shouldn't be surprised. I am running the dozens now. Ask your mother. She will tell you the same damn score, and give no reason. She isn't the whore in this particular yo' momma joke, pimp. Look in the mirror.
I am.
4 comments:
I'm not sure what to take from this, other than the possibility that you quit smoking some time ago, and if so that's great! I myself quit sometime last year but refuse to record an actual date because that action would lower us all. It doesn't even bear thinking about on that level, that's how done with cigarettes I am.
Sometimes though...when I'm pretending to be a whiskey writer, I get to thinking "goddamn how much film noir would be in this picture right now if I was offering a pretty dame a cigarette before she explains the case she wants me to work on. I would light two of them and pass her one because fucking smokers have a habit of stealing lighters and this old detective be damned if he's gonna lose another Bic tonight."
Fortunately, these moments are purely cosmetic and I can get over it pretty fast. Fuck you, tobacco.
Well, technically I quit my old rule (never buy mine own) in September last. And I've probably bought about 22 packs since then. Worked my way through the rainbow of all the American Spirits, in between Pall Malls, Chesterfields, Camels (Turkish Blend! Actually I'd walk a mile the other way for that shit) (not that it was so bad! The flavor was actually the best I had, deep mellow and rich, but it turned my stomach! No! No good. Bad cigarette.), Marlboros red, gold, and gold specials, what else. Some weird premium brand that's narrow and skinny and longer, which is I am not sure overcompensating for anything, because, misdirected overcompensation Holmes!
Sherlock Holmes was a smoker. He used to do some funny shit back in the day!
So bottom line, I've worked my way through a whollllle lot of brands in the past stack of months, in a cursory and discursive and desultory way, to be sure! - but I haven't really found one I like. So I'm probably going to run out of kidding myself and quit looking pretty soon.
Pretty soon.
Hey what was yours??
Mine were an incredibly cheap brand called Canadian Classics. The taste wasn't terrible for the price is all I'll say about them. That's quite a gauntlet you've run though! I remember Marlboros. I remember them in a shitty light though. Hast thou sampled any Clove cigarettes? I hear they're tasty but not so much that I would change brands.
This one time, the old professor in the crime scene house (murder occurred downstairs - the prof's assistant) was a smoker, he had some particularly NICE ones which Holmes recognized, enthused as an aficionado - next thing you know, Holmes conducts the whole interview pacing back and forth, chain-smoking like a spaz and gesticulating wildly, filling the whole fucking room up with smoke as he and the prof have their little talk.
The whole point of this big act (apart from to put the professor at ease with all this unforced camaraderie) was so he could pop his head in the door an hour later and see where the murderer had been hiding! The tracks were there in the ash, the professor knew it all the time. She had been concealed in a cabinet or something.
HOLLLLLLLLLLLLMES!!
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