…did I tell you, I’m a blogger?
I’m occasionally terribly depressed. It comes in fast strong waves. Hopefully gone tomorrow—so I can deal with those bitches I work with. Some of them have penises, those bitches—and some of them don’t. Who cares? I don’t. Just stop bitching. As rarely as I complain: this time I’m ready. I’m ready to threaten suicide and let the lizard tears well up in my eyes. To hell in a bucket—swinging my feet over the side.
I try. What a wasted phrase. I try to do it all. Do it all without complaint. Maybe the typical grumblings, you know—me and the holy spirit. But without complaint. Try it, you’ll like it. You’ll feel better. Until just one fast strong wave hits. Then you’ll wish you were dead. You’ll wish you were Atlas [as he] Shrugged. Fuck it all.
“I’m offended. I’m the pan on your stove. You broke me. You forgot me. You boiled me dry—so hot—and in sheer disconsideration you filled me up again. OUCH. That burned. And you boiled me dry again. You weren’t even stoned. What is your excuse? I’m broken. My heavy metal round base is disconnected from my smooth steel underbelly. Ruined forever. And if you try tossing that heavy base into my circular mouth, and if you boil your coffee water for your French press, I’ll make it tase metallic. I’ll grumble. I’ll give you something to remember me by. My pain. Your penny flavored coffee. I’ll give you a voice like mine. Like smoke. Like Tom Waits back from the dead. Like cigarettes through a rusty cheese grater. Ungrateful. Forgetful. I’ll never forgive you. I’m not a Christian saucepan you know. Most of us ‘allegedly’ inanimate objects are not. Inanimate. Hmmph. Sheesh. Gimmie a break. No pun intended.”
Cry me a river. Hell—a slough. I’ll take what I can get.
Imagine all the complaining objects. Just sitting there. Ashtrays full of bubble gum and cigarette cellophane and gold foil torn from the ends of packs. And they complain:
“Oh for Key-wryste’s sake! Ashes people! And cigarette butts. That’s what I’m made for... I’m not your fucking garbage can. The non smokers I can forgive, but you smokers… YOU KNOW BETTAH! What? Are you trying to start a fire in here? Burn down the bar? Where the hell else are you gonna drink? At a dance club? With the music going DOOF DOOF DOOF DOOF? Right.. yeah right. A-s-h-t-r-a-y. Not a garbage can. Show some respect. Please.”
I guess this is one of those interlude blogs. I’ve been hammering away at my last entry in the “essential thoughts” series. I started this blogging hobby because my head was overflowing with ‘hidden history’ and ‘secret conspiracies’. Man. So many years of study—I had to get it out. Now I can hardly hammer out an entry every six months. Even with a goal, and a plan. I’m occupied. I’m strangled for time. I let myself be. I’m trying to do it all. Now don’t complain. Not to me. I don’t wanna here it.
I’ll tell you exactly how I quit smoking. First I read a book called “The Easy Way to Stop Smoking” by Allan Carr. It’s great. If you’re going to copy my reason—you’ll have to find the book and read it. The rest of my story goes like this:
I was driving to the credit union to make an important transaction for my mother. She needed me to wire here a decent sum of money, and I had a print out of her account information. I had it in my breast pocket. I was driving and smoking, and as was my habit, I tossed my nearly finished (still burning) butt out the window. Or I thought I did.
So I walk inside and I’m immediately greeted by a bank worker, and she knows me, because my mother-in-LAW works at the credit union. The bank worker is chit chatting, I’m talking back, and I notice smoke. A tiny wisp of smoke. And I ignore it. I just ignore it.
Then as we’re talking I notice it again. And I look down. And I’m smoking. My shirt is smoking. I’m slightly ON FIRE. I look at my mother-in-law’s co-worker and I say, “Excuse me, I think I’m on fire”. I reach into my pocket. I pull out the lit cigarette butt. I MUST have dropped there. And I pull out the piece of folded paper with my mother’s account information.
I put the cigarette out. Right there. On the piece of paper. I’m embarrassed. I excuse myself and I go into the bathroom to check myself out. I wash my hands. I look in the mirror. No hole in my shirt, but a nice brown singe. Narrowly averted a real painful scene. Whew.
Then I notice the paper. It smells like a taxi-cab ashtray. It’s has holes burnt through it in at least 4 places. And it has all the information I need to finish the crucial money transfer for my mother. Fuck. This is going to suck.
I walk up to the cashier and I hand her the paper. She smiles. She knows me too. I quickly explain:
“Um, I dropped a cigarette in my pocket, and when I pulled it out, uhh, I put it out on this piece of paper, but, umm, I need to make this transaction and, uhh, all the wire transfer information is on there. Umm. Uhhmm, I’m sorry. I’m sorry but…”
So she helps me. She understands. I leave. I’m as embarrassed as I’ve ever been in my life.
There is something you need to know about me. Back in the day, I hounded my friends about not smoking. I attacked them. Verbally. Physically. I’d ask to bum a smoke, and then break the cigarette. I’d threaten to smash whole packs. Sometimes I would. So when I turned 30 and started smoking. I was humiliated. My friends looked at me in horror. A cigarette in my hand? In my hand? Impossible. Most of them were so shocked they couldn’t tease me. They rarely mocked me. They were dumbstruck. Sad. Amazed.
The night after I nearly caught myself on fire inside of the credit union, I was standing on my front porch—smoking a cigarette. I remembered the scene from earlier. I remembered Alan Carr’s excellent book—full of the world’s best “STOP SMOKING” advice. I did what he said.
Allan said when you finally come to your last cigarette, you’ll know. And you’ll be ready. He said to take that last cigarette and huff a few mighty drags. Draw it in deep and taste the disgustingness. Tell yourself how much you hate the flavor and smell. Tell yourself: I’m a non smoker. I’m never going to smoke again.
…and I am. And I won’t.
Until next time.