Thank You For Smoking

Designated Smoking Area Sign

I’ve decided that if I want to smoke, I should be facing west, for the light to travel more naturally from east to west. It’s really disorienting when I smoke because solids disappear, I feel my hands warping and melting, my face feels blurry and distorted, the magma on the cig looks like robotic bee soldiers, the wrapping just came off in the shape of a mouse with a tail, and the mechanics and repetition lead to unexpected results, like bifurcating fire cherries flying off and weird sounds, and the black sludge produced by my fire retardants smell bad and doesn’t mix with anything. Cigarettes are a nasty habit that I wish I didn’t have to deal with. I want to be rid of them so badly, but I’m on a pack a day, and there is no end in sight. Ever since I smoked with Naira and Ash at Camp C.A.M.P. in Centerpoint, TX, on the cusp of my 18th birthday, when I was trying to woo Geneva Matthiews, I have been glued to cigarettes and feel like my body is suffering. It didn’t help that my outer layers of skin had been removed by a bonesaw in an accident a few years earlier when I broke my skin and they put a cast on me and cut it off, and it didn’t help when my wisdom teeth were removed because my family fell for Md. mumbo jumbo, and it didn’t help when my reflexes and sensitivity were ruined by psychiatric medications from even more witch doctor crap. I can’t handle cigarettes. I’m not healthy enough, and it only makes me feel sick and tired, but the process is almost geared to my body. I feel evil for burning things, and I don’t want to; I get no pleasure from it and it is expensive and irrational, but, as I said, the process seems inescapable and I don’t know how to refactor my behaviors into something more acceptable. I am so so weak from the smoking process, and when I smoke, I can see my hands melting away, and see the magma popping off and passing through my body parts and infesting, and then I have psychic terrors that my body is extremely thin and that I can’t keep up with my own headspace, as dreams and television characters and memories all jumble in on me and vie for the attention of a snapped thread of life that can’t hang on any longer. Most often, the psychic terrors are a result of psychiatrists trying to get me declared mentally ill for the government to kill me. I did not have any psychotic episodes until the psyche doctors started giving me pills, I subscribed to cable tv, and the doctors started insinuating I had trouble, which the tv then provided via wireless phone and cable. I am very familiar with computer simulations, but the terrors the doctors imbue in my thoughts have only grown more real over time. I am not biting the hand that feeds me. I am not suspicious of those who are trying to help me. The doctors are feeding me poison, and hell is other people – people who have never helped me.

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