Strange Confessions: 3 Cigarettes, The Conclusion

Strange Confessions: 3 cigarettes, conclusion.

While hanging out with my friend in the summer of ’85, I smoked a few cigarettes. It was not much. As I said before, I probably don’t need more than two hands to count them. I believe part of the reason I did this was to fit in. If you’ve known me for some time, and have had conversations with me about my past, you’ll know I am the anti-popular-reasoner, but there have been some exceptions, which will be subjects of other Strange Confessions.

So it was me, my friend, and this other guy who was a friend of my friend. Hmm, this would be easier if I could address them with names. We’ll call my friend Mack, and his friend Punk. So we are out there, behind The Store, you know The Store right? It was this junky little grocery store down 6200 S. off of Highland Drive, but now it is a fine foods market & deli. You know the kind: independent little places that were lucky enough to be in a location that had great growth and can completely change its identity to cater to those with a higher taste for more expensive goods. Not to mention that Rich’s Bagels was right across the street. What? You mean to tell me you never had an asiago cheese bagel from Rich’s? Go get one,… like now! Oh, and don’t forget the savory cream cheese, you know, with sun-dried tomato, scallion, herb or jalapeño.

Anyway, Mack and Punk and I were standing back behind The Store, (there was no fence there then. There is now, I checked on Google maps) smoking our cigarettes, talking about Pink Floyd or AC/DC or some punk band that Mack was starting to get into. I wasn’t really inhaling, just kind of taking it into my mouth and blowing it out. I was accused a time or two that I wasn’t doing it right, by seasoned observers of course, possibly by Punk on this day or some other time by someone else. That isn’t the point of this story anyhow. What was, was the way I “ashed” my cigarette. So you’re smoking away and knocking off the length of ash that grows at the end of your cigarette. I found this part particularly cool, holding the filter between your index and middle finger, and flicking the mouth part with your thumb so the ash gets knocked to the ground. Incidentally, I’ve always despised the fact that being a smoker is an automatic license to litter wherever and whenever you darn well please! Watching people throw their cigarettes out their car window, or seeing all the cigarette butts piled near building entrances or even mountain trails makes me want to crash into them or kick someone in the head… I know, just relax, nothing to get THAT excited about. So, I get near the end of my cigarette and I’m ashing away, when suddenly my whole “cherry” escapes from its paper lining and falls, *gulp* unconsumed to the ground. The “cherry” is the red-hot burning part of the cigarette and you don’t ash it when you get near the end, because it will do just that: fall out. Punk starts laughing at me, calling me a noob. Wait, we didn’t call each other noobs back then, but if we did I’m sure Punk would have called me just that. There I am standing there, no more cherry in my cig, no more ash to ash, just some doofus with a stained filter betwixt his fingers, and a bigger doofus laughing at him.

I never saw myself becoming a regular smoker up to this point, just doing it with friends or whatever. I suppose no one really sees himself becoming a smoker, then one day, bam, you’re a smoker. But, that day I saw smoking as one of the most stupid habits ever! I thank God for Punk and his idiotic guffawing at my ineptitude at killing myself ever so slowly, for he made me realize how dumb it was to follow the crowd down the path of least resistance; an attitude that has stuck with me, for the most part, all my life.

~Stranger

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Posted on August 31, 2013, in Strange Confessions and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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