Many Blood-Sucking Parasitic Arachnids (Politics)

Just like any good child of my generation, I developed a slight addiction to the television. Not quite as bad as children of the upcoming ages whose parents nonchalantly refer to Sponge Bob as “the babysitter”. But still, I feel a slightly overpowering connection between the remote and myself on occasion, as though maybe in some passed life we were both otters of the same clan, splashing each other with water and giggling our creepy otter laughs.

Often times I find myself mindlessly clicking, which is when I realize the effects of my youth the most. It’s a total waste of time I am aware since, when you’re channel surfing, the whole thing is about wasting time. Recently, I was doing just that after a hard day of wishing away a hangover from bed and before I even realized it I had watched a pretty hefty portion of the film “Hairspray”. You guessed it, the cinematic musical adaptation, complete with pansy teen idols and a cross-dressing scientologist.

As I lay there, wishing I had the energy to reach for a glass of water, I found myself criticizing the themes of the film with the few functioning brain cells I had left. It takes place during a crucial time in civil rights, where integration was becoming legal quicker than it was becoming accepted. Sure, the show does shed light on the pain and struggle, but overall creates a feeling of excitement and progress. Watching the film, by the last musical number you feel like you’ve just won something amazing like a life-long tax exemption or a beta fish that will live forever. Even I felt strangely good, lying there, making deals with God to cure my alcohol-induced suffering.

At first, my skepticism was, “Yeah, sure,” assuming that they had lightened it up too much and I was sure a time like that could not have been so joyous. Then, I really thought about it. Back then, progress for equality was drastic and obvious, no one could hide from it. A gale force wind of cultural change bitch-slapping every close-minded American in sight by visibly and permanently changing the way they live their previously comfortably racist lives. Compared with today, I guess that does sound kind of exciting.

Today, both progress and hindrance are somewhat invisible forces. They have been the ghosts under our beds who, however rarely, will come out and rearrange our sock drawer. We live in a sort of cultural purgatory where equality is (for some) “legal”, but remains an issue in those pesky, hard to reach places.
I’m speaking, of course, about places like Virginia.

Living in New York, (Alright, parts of New York) it can sometimes be easy to forget that in some places racism, sexism and homophobia exists not just in people’s private minds, but out in the open just like steel drum players and the homeless. I know that for a long time I’d lived contently under the strict belief that all places in America operated as New York did, until I was forced to recognize otherwise.

Through high school I had a friend named Antonio. Of all our friends, we had always seemed to click in a special sense, and even more than that I always looked up to him in a way. He was smart, politically outspoken, socially conscious and still a blast to be with. And sure, he was dark-skinned but what did that even mean? Maybe that was me being ignorant, but I certainly didn’t stay that way for long. Midway through high school Antonio’s family relocated to Bumble-eff, Virginia, and so rapidly after did things change.

I naturally missed him, and we kept in touch as much as we could. Antonio was, as I said wonderful, so it wasn’t long before he made a few friends, found himself a place in a new rock band and finally, met a sweet new girlfriend. To me, she looked like a southern belle from a movie: fair skin, blonde hair, and curvy with a classic looking face.

“Damn.” I had said when he sent me her picture. “Way to go, Antonio.”

But as sure as they were crazy for each other, the color of his skin made her family equally as crazy. They made this very clear over time, in the best way they could. When studying human grieving patterns you see that there are often stages people go through to cope. In this case, where someone has forbidden feelings like racism that can’t be legally expressed, I sometimes think they experience the same stages.

STAGE ONE, DENIAL:
“This is our little girl’s new friend,” Her parents would emphasize to friends and relatives.
“I’m not sure about that boy, dear.” I imagined her father with a big, white beard and a pipe.
“I just can’t understand what you see in him.” Her mother would say, pretending to make an attempt.

STAGE TWO, BARGAINING:
“Darling! I just saw John Saunders from around the corner!” Her mother would nudge her suggestively. “He was asking about you, isn’t he so charming?”
They would have dinner parties, at which I imagine there being an old fashioned drawing room. Her first real boyfriend would be invited without her knowledge. “I’ll bet you two have some catching up to do…” her sister would wink.
And more desperately her father would set her down on his lap, “How about that newfangled computer you wanted? Now about that boy…”

STAGE THREE, DEPRESSION:
“Yes,” They would sigh to friends in sequin evening gowns and tailored suits. “It looks as though they’re still together,” as their friends shook their heads and drank their wine.

And then, STAGE FOUR, ANGER:
It was with this stage that things just became obvious. She was forbidden to see him, and her sister was sent to spy on them at school. The relationship was simply not allowed, but these lovebirds kept on fighting and then finally, I received the most fascinatingly terrible phone call.

“Hey, Ant. What’s crackin’?” My enthusiasm was not matched.

Antonio was sobbing on the other end. I had only ever heard him upset about something other than politics once before, and he was drunk that time and even then, “sobbing” was not the word for it.

“They were here when I got home.” His voice was shaky as he explained to me that when he walked in the door after school his house was already filled with federal agents. They had received an anonymous tip that my smart, skinny, sweet friend had made a legitimate threat against the life of President Bush. I knew it was ridiculous, but under the Patriot Act, that tip was as good as if he had pulled the trigger already.

These nameless agents had already ransacked half of his room before he’d gotten there, and he had no choice but to watch them check the rest. His journals, books, private things that no person should be able to see.

“I’m so sorry Diana, they read the letters you wrote me.” Sure, that bothered me a little but mostly because he was still so considerate as to apologize to me when this terrible thing had just happened to him. One of his journal entries had mentioned being depressed.

“Let’s see your wrists, son.” Of course they didn’t find anything. No scars, no threats against the government, no communist propaganda or pro-terrorism newsletters or whatever insane thing they might have expected to find. So, they had left, moments before he called me for the aftermath.

I looked up to Antonio because I was never as outspoken as he was. My opinions were my opinions and I just didn’t think anyone wanted to hear them. But I became so enraged in that moment, and I just let it all spill out in a frenzy of swear words and run-on sentences.

“I can’t believe they fucking did that to you those fucking bastards you didn’t fucking do anything fucking wrong in your entire fucking life and they can just fucking pull this shit?” I went on to further impress him with my eloquence. The thing was we both knew exactly who called them and why. The only political essays he wrote were for liberal newsletters that no one even knew about, and his friends all shared most of his opinions anyway. Besides, nothing he ever wrote could have been misconstrued as threatening in any way. “That fucking bastard, Antonio, if I ever fucking see him-“ And that was the end of that. My phone service was turned off, and wireless communication to my home? Cut. Not forever, just for a few hours. Just a warning that I had better watch what I say, or who I say it too.

…STAGE…FIVE…ACCEPTANCE?:
Acceptance did eventually come, for everyone. After all, there’s not much more a parent can do to protect his or her child after attempting to have someone condemned for treason, is there? And apparently, not even the possibility of federal prison can stop true love. The two birds have more recently become married to each other; I’m sure putting a final nail in the nonsense coffin.

Since these events he and I have mostly lost touch. But that incident has stayed with me. How we still have so much to work on as a country, how as a culture we can be so despicable to each other. Antonio is now serving his time and risking his life for the country that had zero tolerance, faith or respect in him not so long ago. And that restores my faith in us, and my hope for what we all could be.

Lady Gaga, a response

So a while back a friend of mine wrote a blog entry that I thought was note worthy and though I naturally respect her opinions and think very highly of her, I have some disagreements with some of her points in this matter.

When I first came across Lady Gaga I thought what I always think when I hear a new female pop voice singing about blahdi-whatever: nothing. For those who know me, you know I indulge in pop music often, for whatever reason. But I certainly don’t care about it. But I quickly realized that even though Lady Gaga attracted mostly the same crowd as every other female pop wonder, she was different. Weirder. Way weirder. And if there’s one thing I appreciate, it’s weirdness. Her music is mostly mainstream in it’s sound but she experiments in performance art and has somehow gotten away with existing in the top charts while subtly breaking their molds before their eyes. That and ain’t she just so dern catchy?

But that’s not really the point. My friends post mostly talks about how Lady Gaga addresses the gay community.

When Lady Gaga won her VMA award, she stood up and thanked, with the entirety of mainstream media watching, “God, and the Gays.”

The offense my friend mentions is in short that in doing this she groups all homosexuals together into a stereotype, and since she’s suggesting that the “gays” make up a good portion of her fan-base, also suggesting that the gay stereotype indulge in many of the socially negative things she sings about in her mainstream songs. (i.e. drinking excessively, promiscuity.) That is assuming that those things are actually negative outside of the realm of popular opinion.

So with that all in mind, I have to say that my main argument is that the gay community is actually a community. For now. Yes, that does not excuse stereotyping and the like, but at this moment in time LGBT refers to itself as a community, and I think there is good reason for that. Right now, of the many groups of people in America who struggle for equality, LGBT are in a current fight. I think it’s important during this time period that a group of people as oppressed as the LGBT community should be sticking together, and let the struggle for individualism come after they’ve gotten basic human rights out of the way. I think seeing the insult in Lady Gaga’s thank you might be thinking too far into things, when really, strong females in pop culture have always been associated with the gay community for a lot of reasons, and she definitely breaks the mold and stands out among other female pop stars.

I think it really is just a gesture towards an oppressed group of people, thanking them for their support towards her, rather than the other way around. Say if the first female CEO or something, and in a speech thanked all American women for my success. That’s not to say that the women of the country had anything to do with my success, or that they all supported me, or that they’re all anything like me in any way. Just saying that I’ve made a step in a good direction for women’s equality and I want to acknowledge my fellow ladies.

Okay, I know that Lady Gaga hasn’t made any strides in the gay community, but she is breaking the mold for pop music by bringing an aspect of performance art, irony, and a new kind of vulgarity to the top of the charts, and I think it’s cool that in front of an audience of people who think Paparazzi is just a funny upbeat love song and the mass majority of whom on a daily basis are not concerned with anything to do with the gay population…but she just casually acknowledged them in a positive way. I think all around, no harm done and maybe even just a touch of a positive light. But that’s just me.

I have a lot of other things to say in respect to Lady Gaga but they aren’t really related. So I’m just going to leave this as this. If you don’t like it, you can suck my gay.

*Little known fact, I really enjoy using the word gay where it doesn’t belong. Like just now. Or like this: “Hey man, let’s gay up a fire in your fireplace.” Just sayin’.

Love Isn’t

Quite recently I encountered a very strange situation. If I hadn’t had someone to laugh about it with, I probably would have been too flabbergasted to handle it. We’ll start with the story, and move on to the point in a bit.

So I have a fairly good friend, this fella we’ll call…Travis. I went to visit him and a few other friends one evening, since we live a bit of a distance from each other and it had been a while. Pretty standard. But shortly after arriving there, the “I missed you”s and “it’s so good to see you”s started to cross the line from friendly and honest into straight up romantic (on his part). Throughout the night this continued to progress, until finally he was dropping the “L” bomb into my ear. Now understand, I did not reciprocate that feeling at all. But I was worried and curious about this unexpected behavior and news (especially since Travis was not exactly ‘available’ at this time). So a few days later, I asked. I asked if he really felt that way and figured as friends we could figure out what to do about it.

Wrong. Because the truth turned out he hadn’t really felt that way. And it wasn’t a skewed perception on my behalf either, he admitted that he was purposefully talking and acting that way. So my next question is naturally…”Why? What purpose could a random, unnecessary lie like that serve?” His answer was that he noticed I had been lonely as of late, and wanted to make me feel better. If that response doesn’t make you feel horrified for the entire concept of ‘love’, then I’m pretty sure you’re unable to feel feelings. Being pitied on by a friend is more than enough to make you feel emotionally inadequate. But now onto the ‘point’.

The question that came into my head once rage dissipated was “Why on Earth do people lie to make others feel better?” I feel like we’re taught so young that lying in any form was a BAD thing. That it brings NEGATIVE results each and every time. So at what point do we twist into the idea that we can beat the system, and that we can make lying work positively somehow? It’s all a bit arrogant, really. (this has never worked ever before for anyone at all, but *I* can make it work!)

One thing that falls into this same category is the girls that fake orgasms to make the people they sleep with feel better about themselves. I’m not even going to touch on the self-esteem issues that lie there, but essentially they’re playing some backwards version of The Boy Who Cried Wolf. The fact is, when you lie about these things you’re not doing anything for yourself besides set yourself up for disappointment. Cause after all that faking, when love or sex turns out to be something you actually want, you’re the one who’s going to turn out insufficient. And when the person you lied to finds out that you did (which every time, they will), you’ve just gone and hurt them too. For no reason at all save for self-righteousness.

I’ve put out a million unrequited feelings into the universe. And I’ve even received a few. But I’ll never regret my honesty because when I do say “I love you” to someone, that someone can take solace in knowing that I mean it beyond a shadow of a doubt.

The moral of the story is quit lying. You aren’t helping anyone.

I realize that this was a bit rambly. Even for me. Truth be told I had planned on writing something like this down for a while (since about 2 days after the aforementioned incident) but I kept putting it off for one thing or another. But at the moment this topic carries a bit more weight on my shoulders than it used to so decent writing got sacrificed for the need to purge.

and also, just a side-note to the “Travis”s of the world. This stuff doesn’t make you a bad person, or unfixable or anything like that. There are a million flaws and mistakes that people have and make every day (and you need not look far to see mine) this is just one that I’m shining light on.

Butterflies

I know, I know, I’m better at procrastination than I am at writing. But I found this in the middle of a notebook. I forgot about it entirely and I really like it. So piss off!

Don’t really piss off. I like you, promise.

What is our fear
of things different than us?
We fear these different ways
will be the ones that take away
our freedom.

Our freedom that we obtained like when a caterpillar waves at a butterfly and that butterfly scoffs and says
“hi, hi…well
I used to be just like you, but now I
am royalty, see I am free.”

What I do see is that when democracy was founded
our forefathers saw what our fathers are too quiet to have.
The freedom to speak should be obvious
because we were given voice eons before women got choice
but tell me when last you took a chance
and tore apart your lips to pour change into your mug instead of coffee.
Or spread the kind of knowledge that you can’t find electronically supplied.

And yes, we’re all in a hurry to get where we’ve been going
to be happy without knowing
the freedom of our immigrant ancestors
who spent their life savings on Monday’s dinner and then did the same on Tuesday.

If you could meet them you’d say
“why? Why not fly with the wings democracy brings
away to be free?”
And this soot soiled sap would look at you and tip his moth-eaten hat and wipe dry his truth-soaked lips and say
“the wings on a butterfly fall still when it dies
but when I speak my neighbors listen and my bread wins the family pride and my vote will last forever and baby,
the only one here who is free, is me.”

Soldier

Well, I’m still working on my next essay, but while I was doing that (procrastinating), I found this poem I wrote not long ago. I could explain why I wrote it, or what I intended it to be from my standpoint but the more I read it the more possible points of view I can imagine. So I figure, i’ll just leave it alone. Unless of course you’re curious, in which case, comment with your email. Of course, that’s really giving myself a lot more credit in the readership department. Anyway, enough babble, here’s more babble but with a rhyme scheme!

smooth, calm intoxication seep through your
skin like nicotine, like sin
unabashed wit silences untamed fear
while inside you ask
will we, be alright?
will you help me, make it through the night?

And while your scars are on the inside
mine wave like a flag
to mourn each fallen soldier in the army
I never had

But darling, you’re gonna make it, and I’m always right.
You’ll survive ages past when your heart says goodnight.

That night you snuck away to make deals with
Satan’s second cousin.
But I saw just like a spy and through the pain
I fought to undo what you had done.
I whispered to your silent lips:
Do you see what you made me do?
Don’t you know? It’s all for you.

And now your scars are on the outside
and mine are standing still to mourn you,
the only fallen soldier in my war
of selfish will.

But darling, you’re gonna make it, and I’m always right.
You’ll survive ages past when your heart says goodnight.

Blasting Lines

I don’t know what to do with this quote yet so I’m going to throw caution to the wind and just slap it right down here, with no regard for it’s relevance to whatever the rest of this entry turns out to be! HAHA I am so reckless!

“I remember being on a coaster-type ride once as a child that I absolutely hated. It was awful and scary and uncomfortable, made me nauseous and dizzy. Then, just when I was starting to feel better and finding comfort in the fact that it was over it made a puffing sound and started to go backwards. That’s PRECISELY what this feels like.” -My Notebook, circa May 2009

I’ve recently gone through a slight hell of a time, one of those periods where one bad thing is only relieved by another, worse thing and so on. But I have found comfort time and time again in the strangest of places. Public. Yes, sitting in various public places, seemingly minding my own business but really eavesdropping on the unbelievably stupid things people say. For instance, a baseball playing athlete from my school who confidently proclaims, “You know you’re really terrible when you spend your whole career in the minor leagues.”
Yeah, okay. Make it to the minor leagues, then talk to me buddy.
So now I find myself reflecting on the things people say, and what ungodly force possesses them to say it. Once, in passing someone in my college cafeteria I heard one male exclaim to the other, “I was just blasting lines in my room!”
Now, assuming he was speaking of cocaine I’m forced to wonder a few things. Firstly, why anyone would brag about doing cocaine. Secondly, who uses the phrase “BLASTING lines”? And lastly and most important, how dull is this persons life that he found it a good idea to do such an intense drug as cocaine and then take a casual walk to the cafeteria, where he would be sitting with other people, just eating some food?
I do this often. Find comfort in the asinine acts of random strangers. Aside from the fact that it’s just too much good fun, I think I probably do it because it’s a way of feeling superior to someone without feeling guilty. The fact that they are random strangers strips them of the rest of their personality and defines them only by this one sentence, or action, or whatever it may be. It is so much easier to be better in every way possible than a person who’s only purpose in life is “blasting lines”. I’m not saying I ever intend on stopping this dehumanizing, self-indulgent habit. Simply pointing it out for what it is and wondering if maybe there are other people who do the same thing.

*Okay I wanted to recognize this footnote with the little mini cross thing, but I don’t quite know how to find that. It’s been ages and then some since I updated this geyser. I would love to make up some bologna about how I’ve been super busy with this or that, (ok which might be true, but still has nothing to do with this blog) really I’ve just got a good combination of laziness and writers block. I’ve got a million stories to tell but where do I start? Anyway, my cousin suggested (by force) that I make this formspring account, where you can ask me all sorts of questions either anonymously or otherwise. Maybe if we work together I can stop being such a boring piece of garbage. Or I can continue being a boring piece of garbage, just one who writes more often. Ask away though!

my next post will either be by tomorrow or whenever the next coming of Christ is scheduled.

Journey

Ryan likes Journey.

Indeed he does. I’m beginning a pretty interesting journey so shortly. I’m nervous and excited and all kinds of curious, which is how I imagine I should feel. Monday I leave for seven weeks. I’m not going anywhere too thrilling, just a college in Purchase. I’ll be living there in the dorms working as a live-in counselor for the Westchester Arc summer camp program for adults of all ages with developmental disabilities. It’s a 24 hour a day job for those seven weeks. Normally, I’d be less than thrilled to work 24/7, but I’ve never been more stoked for anything in my life.

[gay]This is the only job I’ve ever felt I was meant to do. I’ve never belonged anywhere like I do when I’m with them.[/gay]

So, anyway, this post is basically to say that for the next few weeks I’ll probably be updating this a lot, since my contact with the outside world will be pretty much solely through the tubes. So for the two people that have ever seen this thing, get ready for a tidal wave of blogging?

Okay, so that was the awesome part, the happy stuff but unfortunately I’ve got some personal downers to get off my chest so bear with me.

I’ve been facing some health issues brought to my attention fairly recently. I’m using the word “facing” extremely loosely. I haven’t really done anything about said issues at all. And now I’m basically going to cut myself off from standard society for seven weeks and I’m finally starting to get just a tad nervous. However, the first five days of those weeks are orientation, so I’ll find out what my options are. I’m so ‘first stage of grief’ up in this bitch it’s redonk. I’ll get on this shit soon enough though I’m sure.

The urge to write “lol” after almost everything I write when I’m trying to write about something serious is actually disturbing. And if I were telling you this in person I’d be actually laughing out loud after everything I said. I’m so strange.

Ready for something totally unrelated?

Popmatters is looking for music critic bloggers and I’m gonna give them a go. (Did y’all see that smooth transition?) ‘Cause pop music holds a very special (and sexual) place in my heart.

Long Island Railroad

So I know I promised not to be too self-indulgent here, but fuck each and every one of you sideways.

I’ve got these friends right? These four boys I met my first year in college. First week in college. They’ve known each other since grade school and they play in a band together. (Ah, sure, why not.) shameless plug. Anyway, I’ve been spending an awful lot† of time with them lately. Since I’ve been doing that, I’ve also been paying more attention to music (again) and myself (eh).

I had a professor in college who told me that I was “a thinker”. What she meant by this was that I have good ideas, I just don’t do shit with them. I changed my major from English to Sociology that day.

I didn’t realize how funny that was until I came to understand what it meant to be a sociologist. Well, for the vast majority of us, anyway. But I’ve been thinking about that conversation recently because of the interesting weight it carries. I’m a good thinker, she told me. What an abstract thing to be good at. Have I mentioned yet that I’m a Gemini? No, of course not. Well I am. And I mean to the T, in all the craziness that entails. So naturally, I have two polar opposite opinions on this.

What it comes down to is what the fuck does it mean to be a good person? To be worth something more than just biology? If you believe, as half of me does, that we can measure that worth in abstract things like our capacity to love, or compassion, or our thirst for knowledge, or creativity or some other bullshit like that…well then call me winner in the game of life. Seriously, check mate, uno, Yahtzee! But my equally prominent other half believes that that’s not really what counts. What counts is your actions, what you do, how you do it, when you do it and MAYBE, if there’s time, why you do it. And if that’s the case, then I am fucking cute without the e, for real.

This may seem unrelated, and it probably is. I didn’t start writing this with any plans or intentions, and I’m certainly not going to make one up now. I’ve always felt some sort of very real connection to Rogue. Yeah, a mutant gal from X-Men. And this is actually completely unrelated to my strange desire to be Anna Paquin. It also has nothing to do with the fact that I too absorbed Ms. Marvel’s amazing stamina (sexually, of course). I feel this way for a few reasons. On a little more of a crazy level, I’ve always taken on the emotions of others as my own. Which is why I would make a great friend, but a shitty therapist. But also, I feel for her because I see all of my supposed “good qualities” as terrible burdens. Not to mention, the girl’s got almost as many personalities clashing inside her head as I do. Almost.

I’m writing this, trapped in an existential hell-the Long Island Railroad. Here is where you come to fully understand and accept the fact that the traditional image of Hell is false and that it is in fact other people that torment our souls. I could give you so many examples from this train ride alone, but I won’t because chances are I don’t need to. If you’re still not convinced, ride the LIRR from Penn Station to Ronkonkoma on a weekend.

We could go a step further with that, being that I’ve got such distinctly different personalities in my head it’s about as if I’m constantly with other people. Other people that don’t mesh well together, mind you. So if hell is other people, I’m already in hell, all the time.
Well, that’s melodramatic.

I mentioned earlier that I want to be Anna Paquin. This is because I nearly idolize anyone with a noticeable, widely unaccepted physical trait that still makes it into fame, or is still considered attractive. I’m of course talking about her nose.

†Even though I say it all the time, I think that using “awful lot” to describe how much you do one thing or another is gross. If you don’t hate doing said thing, anyway. When other people say it I automatically think “Oh wow, it must suck that they get offered free massages from their single, attractive neighbor an ‘awful lot’”. Point is, I’m scolding myself and telling everyone to just stop it.

Cigarettes, you are my bitch lover

My quitting smoking was a process that began the day–nay, the moment that I became addicted.

For the first three years I prided myself on the fact that, unlike my enslaved peers, I could drop the habit and pick it back up weeks later and never blink an eye. This was, of course, a mostly private glory seeing as how I was a social outcast. Also, looking back now, fourteen seems like a fairly silly age to be puffing away.

It all started thanks to my tender-however slutty-lover, Mary Jane. We’d been in a fresh, open relationship for nearly a year by now. I remember hearing once that lighting up a cigarette after getting high was a courtesy, to cover up the smell for those around you. This seemed ridiculous to me, being that the smell of marijuana was a dreamy, intoxicating scent while tobacco wreaked of shame and disappointment. Still, I had decided that since I couldn’t be a part of normal social culture, I would rise above it. An elitist, if only to myself.

Still, for a few years that’s all it was. A smoke followed by a smoke, maybe a few others scattered throughout. I was avid about my brand though-Salem’s Black Label, though it hardly mattered at all. I pretended to like them for various specific reasons, but really it was the pack’s design that sold me. It played into my self-assigned elitism, so sophisticated the way it slid open sideways. I imagined that in my poorly-patched pants and aggressive band t-shirts, slapping that pack opened made me look rough and tumble. Of course, I was a four-foot something, 90 pound girl with skin the color of low-fat milk. Also, I was too young to know that smoking menthol cigarettes of any kind forbade such a reputation.

The day I knew I was addicted, it was mainly, if not purely mental. I was walking through Manhattan at dusk, having just scored a tiny, somewhat pointless bowl from a vendor on Canal street for five dollars. I sucked on that cigarette with a certain accomplishment. This tiny device would eliminate my need for makeshift construction or emptying cigarettes and filling the shells with pot. Looking back, I scoff at the idea of putting up with that for as long as I did. As I celebrated my victory, an older man in a suit, mid forties, tapped me on the shoulder and interrupted my private joy by asking me,
“Hey, hey can I get one of those?”

And as I used my perfected slap technique to open up the pack and hand him that butt I thought, “Wow.” This opened up a whole new world to me! It was as though I was one of those same Canal Street vendors. Except, instead of selling paraphernalia or bootleg movies or watches, I was selling some item that only I had wanted. For instance, my collection of personalized mix CD’s, or mismatched socks. But he had approached me with a mutual love for MY favorite flower as if to say, “we’re the same, you and I.” He changed my whole perspective to see that being a smoker was like being part of a community, and not just one that existed within the isolated confines of high school. No, this community had the ability to bridge gaps between tiny, angry suburban girls to well-dressed, middle-aged city men! I wanted nothing more than to be a thriving member of such a group.

And I became such. I quickly realized I needed to switch my brand. From what I understand, teenage girls often put much more consideration than necessary into petty things like this. Although, usually it’s something like hair style or uncooperative make-up. For me, to discover my brand was to discover myself. For a while, I was Marlboro Reds, recognizing that they had a more tough image like the one I so desired. Still, my “edge” was truly discovered in my final settlement with Camel’s Turkish Golds. In my mind, I had become a model citizen in my newfound social gated community.

Like any decent smoker, I had a ritual. Certain cigarettes that meant more to me than the rest. “Breakfast,” is what I called it. Two smokes and a cup of black coffee was what it really was. Those favorites became a topic of conversation when I befriended fellow members of the smokers circle. Sarah’s after-sex puff. Jon’s midnight bogie. They were more than just a regular craving; they had real emotional value. “Don’t come between me and my breakfast,” may as well have been posted on my door in place of a “Beware of Dog” sign.

Now, when I mentioned that the journey to quit began the day I became addicted I never meant that I was disappointed in myself for being addicted, or that it was a goal of mine to quit. What I soon observed was that being a part of our culture, it was a necessary attribute to always seem to want to quit, but to never actually mean it. People were always saying things like this:
“You’re cutting back, huh? I’ve been trying to do the same, but Damnit! I just can’t seem to keep it up.”
Or, “I’m quitting again once the summer starts. I’ve read about this new method, it’ll work for sure.”
My personal favorites were the cries to the heavens in frustration as they lit up a cigarette at the end of their first-yet-failed day tobacco-free.

Personally, I perfected my struggle with nicotine addiction story. I had stages; only smoking when I was drinking, or particularly stressed out. Things that made it seem like I was smoking less…but I was always stressed out or drinking anyway. But, then-BAM, a tragic slip back into the habit I had never truly abandoned. Oh yes, I had this cigarette culture all figured out.

By the end of it I believed that anyone who tried and failed to quit didn’t really want to. And why would they? Smoking was so wonderful, and the repercussions were so far ahead it was like they were a fairy tale made up to keep us down. But then, almost overnight, I fell out of love with cigarettes. I started looking at them as a long time lover void of it’s former appeal and I decided that I would just quit. For me personally, it could have been much simpler but my image of the smoking subculture made it more complicated. I had become a sworn in member of this community and leaving it would cause a terrible emptiness, and I didn’t want to be responsible for such a thing. So, although my smoking decreased, I remained a lacking member of the club.

As luck would have it, things turned around. Towards the end, cigarettes became just an excuse to leave places I didn’t want to be. A friend from the non-smoking culture, Brian and I shared a bond through the hatred for awful females pining after our friends. Through our escapes, he slowly picked up the cigarettes as I slowly discarded them. It may be immoral, or even a terribly skewed version of reality, but to me Brian became my replacement in the fellowship that I was leaving behind.

Go ahead, you know you want to. What’s your cigarette story?

A More Excellent Way

This is one of the very first true stories I ever wrote down. Even though I think my writing style has changed and improved greatly since then, I still like the way this turned out. Every bit of it is entirely true.
~~~~~~~~~~~
“You cured me.”
I looked in her eyes as my heart broke.
“Thank you. I know I’m better now.”
You see, my name does not come with a special prefix. I do not have a framed degree or award that I hang on my wall. I have never attended med school. I nearly failed science. Health. Yet this woman looked at me with every inch of her certainty and thanked me. For curing her.
This woman, I’ll call her Gabby, had diabetes. She’d lived with it for most of her adult life and you could see the visible wear and tear that it took on her. She was overweight, unkept, and it appeared as if she hadn’t slept in a year.
It was the last of three days at a seminar we both attended in Bumblefuck, New York. I was there with a friend and her family. Gabby was there by herself. We didn’t know each other at all, but we both spent the same three long days, eight hours a day, in this conference room filled with strange people.
Healthy people.
Sick people.
A man for all of these three days, talked to us about disease. He taught us that sickness and disease was all our fault.
The fault of SIN.
The wrath of God.
That your cold was the result of a sinful thought. Or that my Lupus was the fault of my sinful youth. Or that poor man Eddie’s mental condition. Or Gabby’s diabetes. It was all their fault. These were the things that Henry W. Wright stood up to tell us for hours on end, and the basis of his new book “A More Excellent Way”.
Henry, we came to understand, is a Pastor of Pleasant Valley Church located in Thomaston, Georgia. The reason he speaks is because he believes to have connected disease to a spiritual meaning. More specifically, sin. Three days, we listened to this profound message. Three days we listened as he scolded man kind. Scolded himself. Scolded Satan, for his ways of corruption. He quoted the bible, even interpreted for those of us who were not as devotedly God-fearing as he.
“The Bible says-perfect peace belongs to those of us whose minds are fixed or stayed on the Lord.” These are the words of Henry, to sum up his teachings. So then, after you understand that, what’s left? You know that your illness is your fault…but what can you do about it? Henry has the answer. You have to pray. You have to single out and verbally admit to all of your sins. Confess. Repent. And then pray, ask, beg for forgiveness. And then if you’re lucky, God will cure you.
The next question is, “What constitutes as sin, Henry? How do I know what it is I’m being punished for?” Well, Henry would tell you that it’s all explained in his new book. So, quite frantically, I thumbed through the pages of the book, trying to find the roots to my ailments. What I am doing wrong. And then I realized…everything. I was doing everything wrong. That time I was angry at myself, that’s a sin of mine. The way that you hold grudges, that’s sin too.
Joe’s Jealousy.
Harry’s Homosexuality.
Mary’s Masturbation.
You name it, it’s sinful. In fact, they go beyond that to tell me that masturbation is a whole other sickness in itself! Imagine how distraught I was to learn that I had another ailment added to the list!
Now, let’s bring it back to the last of those three days. The last session with Henry. The last lecture. He tells us now that it’s time for some ministries. People were going to be cured, right before our eyes. But he wasn’t going to do it, no. We were. “Find someone,” Henry told us. “Find someone, and pray.” I nervously looked around…I didn’t know what to do in this situation. So I sat there with my head down, hoping no one would trust a stupid 17 year old girl with their health. But then I saw Gabby, walking toward me. Limping, trudging to the seat next to mine. She introduced herself in a weak, breathy voice and told me of her problem. She asked me if I would pray for her. “Oh,” I said shaking. “Of course…”
Gabby and I sat down there as she spilt to me all of her sins, her errors. Everything she’d done wrong, begging for forgiveness, reduced to tears. And when she stopped talking, I knew that’s when it was my turn. My turn to pray for her. I’ve never prayed for myself, never mind anyone else. I didn’t know one thing about it. But for Gabby, I tried. Because she believed it would help. She needed to believe it would help.
After I was done, and we were the last few people in the empty room, Gabby looked up at me with wet eyes.
“Thank you,” she said. “You cured me. Thank you, I know I’m better now.” Gabby hugged me so tight that my face was lost in her arm, and then she insisted on getting my phone number. She said that I cured her, and that she was going straight to the doctor the next day to prove it. “I’ll call you with the good news,” Gabby told me. She said she would go make the doctors retest her. And that she would call me to thank me again, when it was proven that she was cured. She would never have to take insulin again; she could live a normal life. These were the things Gabby said to me, excited now more than ever. Then Gabby hugged me one more time and we parted, leaving Bumblefuck, New York for good.
I still occasionally flip through the pages of Henry W. Wright’s book. See if I can’t find something new that I do wrong. I haven’t changed noticeably from that trip…I don’t believe that masturbation is an illness, I don’t believe that medication are the works of the devil. But Gabby helped me. She gave me a whole new light on the dangers of believing so strongly in an organized religion. Taking the word of man, simply because they tell you it is the word of God.
I never received a phone call from Gabby after her doctor’s appointment.