Reflection, for the most part, can be a nice, relaxing thing to do on a
summer afternoon in between naps, beers, and writer blocks. Unfortunately
in my case it usually ends up being an incredibly stupid mistake and a
giant massive waste of my time and brain power ...for obvious reasons.
Funny, the reason I started smoking wasn't because I needed the nicotine to cope with the unspeakable trauma. Nor did I pick it up to help make my shy sweet schoolboy turned uber badass teenage delinquent transition more convincing. No, the truth is actually quite a stretch, as the truth often is. It was simply because I liked the way smoke looked as it unraveled and recoiled in the air; as if it were a living being trying to pry a path through the air, stretching itself up in growth. Trying to latch itself onto something that doesn't exist. Many would probably instantly bust an artery if they discovered that I actually do possess a very artfully romantic way of viewing things. Sometimes I wonder if they think that my career as a romance novelist is just a cover-up, and that at night I actually put on a mask, leather boots, some purple speedos and hit the streets to fight crime.
The thought sneaked up on me today, during my last trip to the fridge, when I saw that cigarettes had magically crossed itself off of the shopping list. What the hell. He lives in my house, eats my food, and it's not as if he does any of the shopping. On the rare occasion that he does, he either forgets half the list or simply buys a bunch of junk on sale that ends up being thrown out anyways. Last week I came home to find the cupboards stashed with what must have been hundreds –no, thousands of bags of animal crackers.
Back to smoking, he's been on my case forever. Not to be melodramatic or anything but I really don't think that under-developed overly simplistic mind of his can comprehend just how goddamn stressful it is to be a writer. Sometimes you'd go days unable to produce a single decent sentence, other times inspiration bitch-slaps you across the face and you'd be forced to remain conscious for seventy eight hours straight because the second you take your hands off the keyboard that bastard son of a muse would desert you. Despite always pushing things to the last minute, I don't work too well under pressure and it doesn't help when my editor calls me up at eight in the morning to remind me of pending deadline as well as threats to have my head on a pike if I mysterious 'disappear' again when it comes time to hand in the manuscript. It's been three days since my last cig and for someone who use to go through two packs a day that's a fucking miracle.
On that note, I could really, really use a cigarette right about...now. Cancer can kiss my ass. I don't want to live to be seventy anyways.
Second drawer down from the left, home to my beloved lighter and menthols. You can imagine my dismay at the lack of both items when I opened the drawer. The next second my cell phone was up in my hand, and I was pushing angrily down on the speed dial button.
"Yuki?"
"Where are my cigarettes?"
"Duh?" The background noise was ridiculously over powering.
"Don't make me repeat myself."
"Yuki I'm in the middle of a video shoot."
"You think I give a shit? Where are my goddamn cigarettes?!"
"I flushed them down the toilet. So if you must know, their exact location right now would be somewhere floating happily along in the vast underground sewage system of Tokyo."
I don't know when the brat started to develop a sarcastic streak. Either I'm rubbing off on him or I'm spoiling him. Must be a combination of both.
He sighs heavily before speaking again, "If you really need a fix that badly just go to the convenient store and buy some."
...And it was at that moment that I realized ...the idea didn't even occur to me.
"Don't you ever dare go into my office without my permission. That's an order."
"Okay, okay."
"And if you ever touch my things again, I will LOP OFF YOUR HAND."
"Who do you think does your laundry? And folds them? And irons them?! By the way you really need to get some new socks. It's amazing, you barely ever go anywhere yet somehow you own like, zero pairs of socks that don't have holes –"
"Are you listening to me?!"
"Yes. Touch your things equals cut off hand. Got it."
I hang up. Two seconds later the phone rings.
"What."
"Uhh... just wanted to let you know that I'm not going to be home for dinner tonight. Gotta go to some signing party sing songy media conference question asking thingy. I don't really know what it is actually."
"Fine."
"Yuki."
"What."
"Are you mad?"
"No."
"Yes you are."
"No. I'm not."
"Yes you are. Times infinity no tag backs!"
"....What?!"
"Haha. Muah. I love you. See you tonight."
He hangs up.
I once thought it impossible, but that boy just gets more and more perplexing every day. Tossing the phone back onto the desk, something catches my attention right at the very edge of my peripheral vision. I reach back into my cigarette drawer and retrieved a piece of torn notebook paper. Scribbled across it, was Shuichi's unique and unbelievably messy chicken scratch. It must take actual talent to be able to not write straight on lined paper.
You're mad right now. I know. And I don't think I've ever told you this but I really like to watch smoke. Looks so cool. But I'm too much of a chicken to actually smoke myself. Plus I'm a singer and K would ass-rape me with his bazooka. I like to watch the smoke as it curls around you, as if trying to put its arms around you, to grasp you, to touch you, but is never quite able to. Kinda reminds me of, well, me. Anyways, you're probably on your way out right now to buy a new pack. Just...try to cut it down okay? Beautiful things can be deadly too. I really would prefer to have smokey kisses only once in a while.
Shuichi
I considered the note. And considered the empty drawer. And considered beautiful things being deadly. And considered my lover. And considered how he manages to affect me so much with such little effort on his part. And considered how much I hate eating dinner alone... And considered how much I hate myself and what I become when he's not around.
...And I decided that I could go a couple more hours without a smoke. I'll just need a cup of very, very strong coffee ...and a few more beers.
End
Inspired by that pack of cloved cigarettes you bought me
Funny, the reason I started smoking wasn't because I needed the nicotine to cope with the unspeakable trauma. Nor did I pick it up to help make my shy sweet schoolboy turned uber badass teenage delinquent transition more convincing. No, the truth is actually quite a stretch, as the truth often is. It was simply because I liked the way smoke looked as it unraveled and recoiled in the air; as if it were a living being trying to pry a path through the air, stretching itself up in growth. Trying to latch itself onto something that doesn't exist. Many would probably instantly bust an artery if they discovered that I actually do possess a very artfully romantic way of viewing things. Sometimes I wonder if they think that my career as a romance novelist is just a cover-up, and that at night I actually put on a mask, leather boots, some purple speedos and hit the streets to fight crime.
The thought sneaked up on me today, during my last trip to the fridge, when I saw that cigarettes had magically crossed itself off of the shopping list. What the hell. He lives in my house, eats my food, and it's not as if he does any of the shopping. On the rare occasion that he does, he either forgets half the list or simply buys a bunch of junk on sale that ends up being thrown out anyways. Last week I came home to find the cupboards stashed with what must have been hundreds –no, thousands of bags of animal crackers.
Back to smoking, he's been on my case forever. Not to be melodramatic or anything but I really don't think that under-developed overly simplistic mind of his can comprehend just how goddamn stressful it is to be a writer. Sometimes you'd go days unable to produce a single decent sentence, other times inspiration bitch-slaps you across the face and you'd be forced to remain conscious for seventy eight hours straight because the second you take your hands off the keyboard that bastard son of a muse would desert you. Despite always pushing things to the last minute, I don't work too well under pressure and it doesn't help when my editor calls me up at eight in the morning to remind me of pending deadline as well as threats to have my head on a pike if I mysterious 'disappear' again when it comes time to hand in the manuscript. It's been three days since my last cig and for someone who use to go through two packs a day that's a fucking miracle.
On that note, I could really, really use a cigarette right about...now. Cancer can kiss my ass. I don't want to live to be seventy anyways.
Second drawer down from the left, home to my beloved lighter and menthols. You can imagine my dismay at the lack of both items when I opened the drawer. The next second my cell phone was up in my hand, and I was pushing angrily down on the speed dial button.
"Yuki?"
"Where are my cigarettes?"
"Duh?" The background noise was ridiculously over powering.
"Don't make me repeat myself."
"Yuki I'm in the middle of a video shoot."
"You think I give a shit? Where are my goddamn cigarettes?!"
"I flushed them down the toilet. So if you must know, their exact location right now would be somewhere floating happily along in the vast underground sewage system of Tokyo."
I don't know when the brat started to develop a sarcastic streak. Either I'm rubbing off on him or I'm spoiling him. Must be a combination of both.
He sighs heavily before speaking again, "If you really need a fix that badly just go to the convenient store and buy some."
...And it was at that moment that I realized ...the idea didn't even occur to me.
"Don't you ever dare go into my office without my permission. That's an order."
"Okay, okay."
"And if you ever touch my things again, I will LOP OFF YOUR HAND."
"Who do you think does your laundry? And folds them? And irons them?! By the way you really need to get some new socks. It's amazing, you barely ever go anywhere yet somehow you own like, zero pairs of socks that don't have holes –"
"Are you listening to me?!"
"Yes. Touch your things equals cut off hand. Got it."
I hang up. Two seconds later the phone rings.
"What."
"Uhh... just wanted to let you know that I'm not going to be home for dinner tonight. Gotta go to some signing party sing songy media conference question asking thingy. I don't really know what it is actually."
"Fine."
"Yuki."
"What."
"Are you mad?"
"No."
"Yes you are."
"No. I'm not."
"Yes you are. Times infinity no tag backs!"
"....What?!"
"Haha. Muah. I love you. See you tonight."
He hangs up.
I once thought it impossible, but that boy just gets more and more perplexing every day. Tossing the phone back onto the desk, something catches my attention right at the very edge of my peripheral vision. I reach back into my cigarette drawer and retrieved a piece of torn notebook paper. Scribbled across it, was Shuichi's unique and unbelievably messy chicken scratch. It must take actual talent to be able to not write straight on lined paper.
You're mad right now. I know. And I don't think I've ever told you this but I really like to watch smoke. Looks so cool. But I'm too much of a chicken to actually smoke myself. Plus I'm a singer and K would ass-rape me with his bazooka. I like to watch the smoke as it curls around you, as if trying to put its arms around you, to grasp you, to touch you, but is never quite able to. Kinda reminds me of, well, me. Anyways, you're probably on your way out right now to buy a new pack. Just...try to cut it down okay? Beautiful things can be deadly too. I really would prefer to have smokey kisses only once in a while.
Shuichi
I considered the note. And considered the empty drawer. And considered beautiful things being deadly. And considered my lover. And considered how he manages to affect me so much with such little effort on his part. And considered how much I hate eating dinner alone... And considered how much I hate myself and what I become when he's not around.
...And I decided that I could go a couple more hours without a smoke. I'll just need a cup of very, very strong coffee ...and a few more beers.
End
Inspired by that pack of cloved cigarettes you bought me