Perhaps I have always yearned for the symbiosis, the perfect give and take of 69 from my cigarette habit. Our relationship was traditionally more of a 'p9'; cigarettes and their delicious nicotine always pushing me on my knees, cleaning out my wallet. At least in the days of my youth, Phillip-Morris provided the illusion of wanting my attention with the friendly image of their hump-backed, sun-glassed Camel Joe. But now, they just call us from the WaWa glass door with the 'lowest price allowed by law'. Bullshit.
Or, perhaps I merely lose myself amongst ruins of the past when a smoke was merely a smoke. Not merely sheer ignorance, of course, but a time when my decisions seemed to stretch only as far as my eyes could gaze and hand touch. Where are the Snowdens of yesteryear? That time of innocence which now, through hindsight and intellectual expansion, seems to be far from it; those adolescent years of extreme selfishness and an utter lack of existential introspection. Of course, I am free to make my own decisions in this world, but I must now be willing to accept the consequences of my actions. I cannot expect the wife to want to taste my tobacco soiled mouth just as much as I cannot expect a shunned friend to equally share my desire to shun the other.
As I started closing up shop last night after a long day of couples trying to beat the Valentine's Day traffic at Alonso's, I reminisced with an initially reluctant Coleman on how absolutely glorious the post-shift cigarette can be. I smoked it in my mind, imagining my back gently releasing into the brick wall on which I leaned, feeling that general release of self through my lungs. Sin of the mind.
Yet, standing in strong juxtaposition to my p9 relationship with cigs is the one I share with my lovely wife. It is this relationship I wish to cultivate: one which may cultivate at all. Cigs do nothing but edify gravity until I rest below the earth. The wife and I have a perfectly lovely 69.
I'm blushing.
ReplyDeleteI'm blushing!
ReplyDelete