On Smoking.

Lately, I've been fixated on vintage cigarette ads. I like to pretend that it's still 1936, and imagine living in a world where, to make Christmas shopping easier, cartons of Camels still came pre-wrapped in December. I like the idea of a world where a carton of Camels is an acceptable Christmas present. I like thinking that menthol flavored cigarettes are an acceptable alternative to cough medicine when you're sick. I think living in a society that *openly* admits cigarettes are used to curb appetites would be charming. According to the ads, smoking is relaxing, refreshing, and 'soothes irritated throats;' it makes people fall in love with you; smoking is patriotic; smoking is bad-ass. And I want my world to be like that. And I think I could have--quite effortlessly, mind you--convinced myself that I was living a bubble wherein the truths of 1936 were still true, were it not for the following television commercial:

(Please disregard the speech bubbles that were added by the person who posted this on YouTube)

To understand this commercial's devastating effect on my fantasy, let me describe my first cigarette of the morning.

My first cigarette is consumed in one of two ways. Option A occurs at approximately 5:45 am, and involves me hurriedly trying to find either one or both components of my work uniform. Bleary-eyed, sleep deprived and tussled, I usually light up right before I brush my teeth. Drags of said cigarette are taken in intervals, usually right after I spit. I finish my cigarette while cursing the pre-dawn weather and either walking, frenzied, to the car, or walking, even more frenzied (and usually late), over the bridge to work.

Option B is the first cigarette of the day on the days I don't work. Nine times out of time, this involves me waking up between 10 and noon, riffling through the pile of shit next to my bed (which, by the way, is actually a mound of blankets and pillows on the floor), and lighting up while praying that the neighbors' internet hasn't been passworded yet. I smoke while checking Facebook, finish, and fall back asleep.

Either way, I'm usually semi-comatose for the first cigarette of the day.

It is never five minutes to eight when I consume the first cigarette of the day.

There is never coffee and breakfast made and ready when I consume the first cigarette of the day.

The kitchen is never clean when I consume the first cigarette of the day.

I don't even have a kitchen in which to consume the first cigarette of the day.

I am never cheerful and smiling when I consume the first cigarette of the day.

These discrepancies have forced me to acknowledge that I am not the people in these ads. I am not one of those people who feels peppy after smoking. I am not a doctor, prescribing Chesterfields, nor will any doctor I ever see prescribe me Chesterfields. Thus, I'm forced to recognize that all of the other beautiful 'truths' that the campaigns are pushing do not apply to me either.

I think I was born in the wrong decade. I just want life to be simple.

When did it get so complicated?

On Happiness.

On Times A-Changin'.

For a brief while, L. and I were entertaining the idea of packing up and shipping out to Kodiak, Alaska, to work in a fish processing plant. The reasoning behind this was, for me at least, three-fold: firstly, it was a fast way to make money; secondly, I'd become aware of the fact that my time in Missoula is over, and it's time for me to get out; and lastly, it seemed like a quick way to make the break from Missoula.

Kodiak isn't going to happen, owing mostly to the fact that the company that hired us doesn't exist. As in, the business association of Kodiak has never heard of them. Nor has the internet.

However, fate has seen fit to forcibly extricate me from my life of comfortable misery in Missoula.

At approximately 3pm today, our property manager--accompanied by the Sheriff--let himself into our house and informed me that we had to be out. As in, right that second. While I threw my work clothes and my computer into a backpack, they changed the locks. We have to make an appointment to get the rest of our stuff.

Panicked, I called my mom. And, just like that, a radical change was set into motion. It appears that by early next week, I will be living in Billings. I have an apartment. I have a car. I have two interviews with employers I've spoken with over the phone. I have a place to stay until then, and I've passed the point of caring.

Life is a funny, funny thing. It's not always fun, but it is funny. I'm beyong the point of panic and all I can do now is laugh; I'm laughing because, when I failed to take the initiative to get myself out of the doldrums, fate (or maybe just coincidence) stepped in and helped me out.

Yep. Life is funny.

It's Snowing And,

I'm supposed to be getting ready right now. I'm on my way to another going away party, and it should be fun, and I've already said that I would go, but...

Here's the thing:

I don't want to go to another going away party.

I fucking hate going away parties.

Fuck.

Think-Make-Think

Via One Floor Up:

"Artwork and photo by Clifton Burt, inspired by a John Maeda quote."

November is Awesome.

November. I've always like November. Mostly because November is my birth month, but this November is monumental. Aside from being the month I turn a quarter of a century old, it's the month The Koppa Mafia (our kickball team) made it to the championship game. It's the month I finally write a novel as part of NaNoWriMo. And in the grander scope of things, it's the month the democrats took back all houses of government.

The shock if it all is preventing me from articulating myself, from expressing how exciting/relieved/proud I am. But as soon as I find the words, I'll be back.



Happy day.

WANTED FOR: Hooliganism

Sometimes I like to peruse INTERPOL's "Wanted" section, searching for the fugitives who are around my age, memorizing what they're wanted for.

I like INTERPOL, because they seem to have a policy against posting flattering pictures of the fugitives, and the unbecoming photographs make me slightly less jealous that these people have, at least, committed to some kind of life. That they know what they're doing with their lives. They're fucking running, trying not to get caught, and that's that.


Say what you will about the life of crime, but at least it lends itself to concrete objectives.