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Pain and Memories by Ray Printer Friendly

Itís weird, but I think back pain makes me want to smoke. When I first stopped smoking, everything made me want to smoke. I mean everything. I could have watched a video showing how a discarded cigarette butt caught an orphanage full of baby puppies and ice cream on fire, and I would still want to light up. Hell, I could have been in the orphanage and I would still want to light up.

Anymore, there are only certain things that make me feel the urge to kill myself slowly with delicious nicotine. Reading old detective novels, for instance. I donít know what it is, but I start reading a detective novel, the kind with the hard-boiled P.I., and I just want to smoke. Lucky Strikes, unfiltered.

When Iím drinking, Iíll randomly want to smoke. Itís sort of unfortunate, because when Iím drinking, thatís when my will power is at its lowest. Lucky for me, I live like three miles away from the nearest convenience store, and itís all uphill. No way Iím walking that shit, and if I got pulled over for drinking and driving, it would be that much worse if I had to tell everyone that I was drunk out of my mind, behind the wheel, because I was going for a pack of smokes.

Of course, then I could totally start smoking again, because I would be disavowed by all of my loved ones that wanted me to quit smoking in the first place.

In case youíre wondering, and in case you werenít a Strangelander when I quit, giving up the sexy death (a.k.a. smoking) was not my idea. I just didnít see a reason for quitting, no matter how many articles people showed me, or how many URL links they sent me.

ďYouíll get cancer,Ē they told me. Yeah, dude, I know. Hereís a little secret: youíll get cancer, too. Itís what people do. Iím not sure when this became a part of life, but itís there now. Weíve always known that people die. Now we know that they die of cancer. Sure, there are millions of other ways to die, but mark my words: if one of those other things doesnít get you, the cancer will.

Nobody gets away from cancerósome people just end up dying before they get it.

Itís a moot point for me, though. Iím done with smokingóat least until my princess wises up and ditches me. Thatís one of the conditions in our relationship: if she ever breaks up with me, I start smoking.

I on-again-off-again dated this girl for a while, and every time we broke up, she ran out and screwed around with some guy or another. She claimed it was because it helped her ďforget the pain,Ē but I think she just liked getting it on with other guys.

The thing is, it didnít take her long to find a rebound. One time, we got in this fight (again), we broke up (again), and I ended up calling her (again). I ended up calling her about two hours after the break-up, and she was already out with another guy.

I thought it was hilarious when she went out with this guy so soon after we had broken up. This was back in my ďIím a complete assholeĒ days, so I wasnít the greatest guy in the world to begin with. But this inspired me.

My friends and I started a pool and for the rest of the summer, we made bets about how long it would take her, who it would be with, and how long it would take me to sweet-talk her back.

I mopped up.

And the point of that long, inappropriate story? If my princess ever breaks up with me, I will not run to the nearest vagina for consolationóI will run to the nearest gas station, for a pack of smokes.

If she takes me back even an hour later, she takes me back as a smokeróthatís just understood.

Anyways, my back hurts like a mad bastard, and I want to smoke. And as I was typing that last sentence, I managed to get salt in a paper cut.

So I think thatís it for now.


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