My cigarette ember burns bright in the dreary night sky. Menthol smoke fills my lungs with each drag, replacing the space once occupied by alpine air. Sickness, I think.
I often fantasize that I have the ability to heal myself. I think about reaching deep into my lungs and pulling out the tumorous masses charred into the pink flesh. That would heal me. That’s what I need.
I take one last drag and snub the cherry into the ground. I keep the butt in my pocket, because I don’t want to be a dirty smoker. If there is one stereotype I hate more than anything, it is that of the dirty smoker. Just because I keep smoking it does not mean I don’t care about the environment.
Some time ago, I even started smoking the organic cigarettes. You know, the ones with the Indian on the front? It shows that I care way more now about what’s in my tobacco than when I smoked those nasty cowboy killers. Those are really disgusting.
My warm breath crystallizes in the cool air. I sit on my doorstep, legs in my chest and hands folded over my knees. I have to be at work in six hours, but, more importantly, I have to buy more cigarettes. I stand, and blood rushes to my head. My balance falters, so I hold onto the wall to keep myself standing straight.
Lately, I have been an insomniac of sorts. I mean, I sleep well when I do sleep, but I sleep only between the hours of five P.M and one A.M. There is nothing for me to do in the middle of the night, but I prefer the silence. People prove too noisy for me to really deal with them.
I step inside, and Dolly stares blankly at me from the landing. What are you doing, she seems to ask. My dog is usually the only company I have on these late night escapades, but recently she seems to be growing tired of the routine. I counter with a vigorous neck scratching. That ought to confound her.
I sprint up the stairs, knowing that Dolly’s eyes follow me the whole way. I ignore her concern, and crash onto my bed. I ought to get some sleep before I go to work, although I know it is a lost cause. Instead, I pick up The Communist Manifesto and try to make some progress on my latest bedside reading.
Ever since I first learned about Karl Marx, I knew he was right. The bourgeoisie have capitalized on the means of production, depriving the common man of his right to self-sustainability. It’s an evolutionary tract that is destined—destined, I tell you—to end up in the perfect harmony of Communism. Besides, what is so wrong with caring about your fellow man? People are innately programmed to do good when good is done to them, right?
I wish people would realize that. Unfortunately, they’re all a bunch of uneducated schmucks wrapped up in their silly tin cans that spew toxic gasses into the atmosphere. Society should be torn down, and we humans should return to our natural hunter-gatherer status, yet people walk around as if they think we have it figured out here in America. It’s progress, they say, but what good has progress really done for us? Brought us democracy? We had democracy as chimps, but some other, selfish band of chimps thought they could control us, so they did. And that’s how this giant sinkhole started.
My eyes start drooping, and I lose my page. Thoughts slip away as dreams of sinkholes fill my brain.
No comments:
Post a Comment