I don't even smoke. But after my job threw me into such a tumultuous funk, I had two choices: cigarettes or suicide. I got in line at Wal-mart in the tobacco aisle and sheepishly looked around--praying I wouldn't run into anyone I knew. My face was burning as I immediately blurted out "I don't even smoke! I've just had a bad day at work!" She smiled down at me and smiled her rotten-toothed smile and picked a pack of Newports out for me. Laughing as she scanned them (holy shit they're expensive!) and handed them to me. "I hope your night gets better." she said as I scurried out of the store with my antidepressants and cigarettes. I'd say overall, a pretty good day at Wally World. Couldn't wait to pop one of those little pink pills to ease my desire to run across the universe and dance on the stars. When I'm alone and without them, all I want to do is fly. But then I remember that I can't fly. So I do the next best thing.
I get home and pour myself a full glass of red wine from Trader Joe's. I sit on the balcony and watch the sun set over the concrete slabs of Buckhead. The sky is an amazing array of pinks and oranges. I light up my cigarette, and I can feel the surge of nicotine hit me. It. Is. Good. I'm flying. I'm flying, and I'm watching the smoke furl towards the ambiguous heavens, and I'm wondering. I'm wondering what God is thinking right now. I wonder if he's thinking about me and my neurosis, or if he's busy handling my friend whose brother shot himself straight in the head during a game of beer pong. Or if he's handling the little girl in my parents bible study group who has been dealing with cancer for so long that her head is now as soft as velvet. Or if he's handling my Granny whose been rotting away in a crazy-I-see-babies-crawling-on-the-floor-all-the-time state of dementia.
Then I finish my cigarette and go throw up. I hide the pack in my drawer full of air fresheners for the next time I'm ready to fly.
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