Being all smoke and mirrors.



The rock ‘n’ rollers of my youth are all turning to ashes. They were once so free and arrogant, a cigarette in one hand, a fuck you in the other. No future.  No future for you.

The image of the rebel with his eye squinting behind the white curls and blue volutes make me ache when I think that those God damn puffs gave them all cancer. And now my heroes are dead.

I smoke too. Not all the time, calm down. Less and less, as a matter of fact. But there seem to be a strange battle between my wish to kick the habit and some death wish to kick the bucket. Romantic suicide at the entrance of a bar, flicking my health at the manhole in the street. No future, no future for me.

There is also that silly concept of “Everyone but me” which seems to be accepted by the dark side of my brain. As if I could outsmart Death. As if I thought that coating my bronchial tubes with a fresh layer of asphalt only occasionally gave me more chances.

In my head, I’m Lauren Bacall striking a match for Humphrey Bogart. I’m Bowie, blowing the cyanide dust of his fag in front of a multicolored lightning bolt. I am Dorothy Parker, as dark as she is bright, blazing atop her typewriter.

And then, there’s this filter between me and the righteous, those who lecture me, butt in and wrinkle their smooth foreheads at my Peter Jackson’s. The more they shake their head in disapproval, the more I shake my butts at my souvenir ashtray from Cancun. I give them the stink eye. Well, I’m stinky all over. I know.

It’s not like I didn’t lose people I loved because of the coffin nails. I think of them often when I cough. I put myself in danger of extinction for every five minute buzz. I should really get that nicotine monkey off my back, before it gets in my lungs.

Because, yes, I am aware that I’m sucking on cancer sticks, leggo my Zippo! I also diminish my existence with each day of inactivity, every dirty dancing with a bottle of Glenlivet, every threesome with a Big Mac and fries, every barbecued pork products I pig out on,  each crossing between the exhaust gases in traffic, each compulsion, each YOLO moments, I slowly consume, smoulder and waste my remaining days.

In short, I’m now taking a good hard look at myself. I’m wondering why I huff a poisonous hue in the face of karma? What runs through my hazy mind? “I’ll smoke if I want to, Grim Reaper! I’ll tap you on the shoulder, at 102, to tell you that I’m taking a nap and ready for you, now, Ô bony one. ”

Well, congratulations my big tarred fool!! I applaud myself with my lovely yellowed fingers!

This awareness makes me yearn to abandon tobacco like a toxic friend. For real, this time… I want to kiss life on the mouth without that zest of ammonia and arsenic on my tongue. I deserve to breathe what I time I have left without wheezing, rosy all over.

In this instance, quitting is for winners. Let’s quit while I’m ahead.

Know that I am writing these lines sucking on what I hope is my last cigarette.

And she tastes so, so good…


2 thoughts on “Being all smoke and mirrors.

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