cigarettes and chocolate milk.

Funny, the last comment I received referencing insulin. I am a pincushion with a nasty chemical dependency. All those coward heroin addicts might shake without their drug of choice, but I'll take skitching over the coma awaiting me. Or the blindness or loss of my feet or hands. You choose. I promised my polemics on cigarette smoking. I mean cigarettes. I don't touch the pot, I'm not inclined to let anything or one pacify me. My anger is my favorite currency. I'll drink because I'm fucking positive that it's not some conspiracy leaning toward mind control. I could be wrong about that, but bad breath and gas don't seem in keeping with a republican plan to make me love my station in life. If it is, fuck 'em. I need a vice or two.

Or two. I started smoking when I was 12. I was just experimenting at that time. Maybe a stolen smoke every week or two to turn me green. By 15 I was walking the mile once a week to roll quarters over my shoulder into the cigarette machine, pull a random knob and run out of Zayre. Whee. 16 brought half a pack a day status. I was up to a pack a day the summer after high school and down to a half again in college when the money tightened up. Thank god for Jim Berg, the book store and gpc 100's.

But this history fails to denote the relationship. There has never been antipathy toward my consumption. Even on the 3 pack days I occasionally see I never look back. I am unrepentant in my pursuit of cancer. It's not a death wish in any common way, life takes care of that sentence with out effort, but an embrace of the safe promise of death. You see, something has to get me. I almost died three times in high school.

The first time I got hit by a car. That hurt, but hurt goes away or debilitates. It's just pain. The second time I was choked unconscious by a stranger and that really wasn't much trouble at all. It kind of hurt the next day, though. The last time I saw death was so subtle that I didn't know it was happening. I have a blood disease that's been in remission for 13 years, but echoed hemophilia and leukemia for a bit. I felt great until the doctor insisted I admit myself because I couldn't stop bleeding.

None of this counts. I hate hearing people brag about being "survivors". We all are and it's nothing to show your ass about. Everyone you know, love, hate, suck off or buy coffee from is a survivor. It's really no great feat.

I'm currently surviving diabetes and my history. All those whiskeys and those smokes. Look, I'm a survivor. I think I'll write a memoir. I was bad, but I got better. Life is hard. That seems to be the theme of all of those crappy tomes. Look what I survived.

You know, I'm kinda done explaining it. I smoke because I can and because I still have a few choices left and because I like to. If you don't I'm very happy for you, maybe you get along nicely knitting or wearing diapers, whatever. I smoke and I promise not to try and get you to. If you don't like to that's more for me.

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