I can remember being at the very start of adulthood, standing in a fine light rain under electric lights in the night trying a cigarette. I didn’t start getting them in quantity until I was around thirty years old, and I had the confidence to speak to the only one of my grandmas who was still living the truth that I wanted to smoke butts and I felt blameless.
The unpleasant feeling I get every day that I am rarely sure how to quell, if I have momentarily lost my power of self-discipline I will smoke a butt, certainly. I kind of posture that I write (and I feel I should note what would appeal to somebody else), but I feel cursed that if I live to a natural old age I will have led a path of sadness and the potential for parchment to convey something sad. I got this idea from some complete stranger on the Internet joking that he would not trade to chance to be in with his family for all the books in the world he might like to write.
Writers can be assholes, it goes without saying.
I believe I am damaged and that I smoke cigarettes for a bit of cool, a bit of a harder nose than I might otherwise sport. Compared to all other wonders in this lifetime I am most concerned with how I might relate to a woman, and the potential for a shared pastime like smoking butts continues to seem like a reasonable opportunity cost. I think every person should choose for himself whether to smoke the little daggers.
It is without a doubt a terrible way to treat yourself, smoking butts, but that is nothing to the kisses you might be felled by if you were to prove yourself unassailable by tobacco but then destroyed by anything else unfairly, anything (like the rock music theme of hippie powers, that unusual concept album). I’m not sure a writer should try to bring down enthusiasm for the best delights you could encounter in your life if you have a little luck.
I am easily willing to respond to a writing prompt.