She smokes

19 Dec 2009 4 Comments

by Jamesin Rants Tags: ,

Why does she smoke? I asked myself as I observed her standing by a 7Eleven, holding a cig between her forefinger and middle finger like a pro, early this morning on my way to school. She’s probably only sixteen but she seems used to it, I said to nobody in particular aside from myself. Is it because of sophistication?

“Look at me. I’m a young and independent woman. I smoke; I’m extremely sophisticated…”

I doubt it. There is no sophistication in smoking tobacco. There is only breath that reeks of charcoal, lurid gums and discolored teeth. Also, there is the possible cancer and other diseases entirely unfamiliar to me. So, why does she smoke? Is it because of the warmth the cigarette smoke brings her body on a chilly morning, so cold it feels like frost bite? Or maybe she practices this vice because she was influenced by her peers. Probably; girls her age (and teens in general) are often easily swayed by their friends. They want to fit in, be one of the “cool” ones.

So what’s the deal? If that’s the case then why are you [James] dwelling on this? Oh, this is just me pondering over everyday stuff. Don’t mind me.

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4 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. kubi
    Dec 19, 2009 @ 19:35:39

    it’s called nicotine :D

    Reply

    • James James
      Dec 20, 2009 @ 11:53:43

      Yah but I’m more interested in why she started smoking…

      Reply

  2. kubi
    Dec 20, 2009 @ 20:28:47

    :)

    Reply

  3. amanda :)
    Dec 24, 2009 @ 10:13:32

    from http://tano-ramoya.livejournal.com

    PHARMAKON
    May 21st, 2007, at 5:56pm

    All my remedies are poisons (good grief, so this is what it takes for me to understand Derrida). I smoke to forget you. I get dizzy and the buckminsterfullerine smoke does nothing to make me forget. Remembering is bad enough, but being dizzy while remembering does strange things to memories: it makes them real in the region that goes thud thud thud.

    So I don’t try to forget. I try to feel, instead. And then the memory of your hands come back, and the way my atoms fired up and imploded. Your very voice makes my physicality react, and I don’t mean that in ways that make you imagine steam and the mating season. I feel you, and hell, it is hell. It’s not how I feel that is hell, it’s that I feel. Of course I cannot not feel, so I try feeling somehow else.

    And then I felt everything all at once, all at once so that it could have been my brain that was smoking. I felt your memory happy in my head, when you laugh and make me laugh harder. I felt you cry and my hands were in your hair. There was nothing to be said. I felt your memory angry at having blocked my punch with your nose. All at once. All at once, how do you feel that feels? There was everything to be said, and all of them I did not say. There was nothing to be said, and I said everything else. All the feelings and the tugs they make on memory made me tired.

    So I tried to sleep.

    So much for that. Don’t get me started on what I dream. Even without that preemptory remark you would have known what I dream of.

    So I stood up instead.

    And smoked.

    So here we go again. Here we will go again.

    As you said. My body is a wonderful aching. Don’t get me started on how my heart feels. I already ended that narrative. Right. About. Now.

    Reply

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