Are you curious as to how one can spend $4.15 a day? Or if the old adage of one cigarette = five minutes off of your life is true (when researching for this, I found multiple articles that actually cited 11 minutes. Oh boy), then at least one hour subtracted from your already drastically shortened life? Well there are names for each one of those cigarette, those smokes, those squares; all the way from that fresh pack bought at 9:30 in the morning, taking yourself at least five minutes out of the way and five minutes late to class, but goddamn. You now are the proud owner of twenty cigarettes, twenty looseys.
1. The Fresh Pack Cig
You knew you didn't have any cigarettes left from the night before. You sort of had to conserve towards the end of the night. From anytime after 1 am, the box starts looking a little low. So you hold off for a little bit, savoring one usually after big events; be it finishing a drink, playing a game, or narrowly avoiding the cops. But you always leave yourself one left for that walk home. Since you were out late drinking last night, you are late getting up for that 11 o'clock class, you fuck showering and run to the store for a pack. Thank god its not that far out of the way, but nevertheless you will still be a little bit late. Eh? This is always one of my favorites, I mean I love them all, but this one is special. You now have almost a full pack. {Tally: Cigarettes left- 19}
2. Walk to Class Cig
This is one, that depending on the situation could also be called Get Out of Class Cig if you are done for the day. But generally this is the first thing done when exiting a building. I know its tough to rationalize, but being stuck inside of a building listening to a teacher babble on about whatever their unfortunate field of choice is, is not really my cup of tea. So you need that cigarette to calm your self back down, get all the anger out; say the things you wanted to scream at at them sitting up in front of the class, so smug and arrogant. But the beauty of this cigarette is that, even if the teacher does happen to be entertaining, does happens to host an educated and informed class, then you need that cigarette to savor the moment. So depending on how many classes you have that day will directly affect your count here. On average I have about three, so their is usually give or take 5 to 6 smoked over the course of the day-before class and after class. {Tally: Cigarettes left- 14}
It only about 2 o'clock.
3. The Watterson Cigarette
This is a ISU specific smoke. I never really encountered it before living inside arguably one of America's oldest and toughest prisons; basically right along the lines with Folsom or San Quentin. But it takes so damn long to get to my room, that usually when I do reach it, I immediately want a cigarette. The stress from all the collegiate bullshit is enough to drive any upstanding citizen to smoke. The elevators are always packed, always inevitably stand next to the guy/girl that happens to have the peculiar odor of stale dorm air coupled with the fact they have not done laundry in a few weeks. Fuck. {Tally: Cigarettes left- 13}
4. The Pre-grit
Another one of my personal favorites. This is usually before the afternoon smoke, often in the confines of a private little nook surrounding Watterson. You have a couple options: Stand-up Crevice, Full Body Crevice, or The Crevice. Any of those suit your fancy? But, this is the cigarette that you smoke coming out of Watterson, and having just dealt with that nonsense, need a cigarette. This is the cigarette to prepare your lungs for the hitters you are about to bang. Basically this is the appetizer for the main course. {Tally: Cigarettes left- 12}
5. The After grit
Enough said. For the record, anytime you can't stop coughing from smoke irritation, simply smoke a cigarette. Cures all sorts of respiratory problems. {Tally: Cigarettes left- 11}
Yeah its about 5 o'clock
6. The Full Body Cig
This is a mandatory cigarette. After you go to the Watterson Cafeteria and get uncomfortably full, this is the smoke that cleanses your palate. Gets the nasty taste of reheated, barely-edible-by-lab-rats food out of your mouth. This cigarette is always in Full Body, a little cove that is an large window into the hallways leading up to the cafeteria. Could not design a better people watching spot than here. Most people are unaware you are staring them down, and if they do realize, then they generally get pretty uncomfortable and speed up, avoiding any potential for eye contact. {Tally: Cigarettes left- 10}
7. The Leaving Smoke
Usually about 9 or so, you are leaving to go to a party and having just successfully transversed the straits of Watterson, you now need a cigarette. Sometimes depending upon the length of the walk, there is occasionally a Walk cig, but that is only under extreme circumstances. Generally walks lasting more then 20 minutes or so. {Tally: Cigarettes left- 9}
8. Arrival Smoke
Congratulations! You made it! Have a cigarette. {Tally: Cigarettes left- 8}
9. Party Smokes
Yes, plural. This is for all the random cigarette breaks during drinking. Dependent upon the weather, this is normally an outdoors smoke. A nice chance to break away from the rest of the party and talk normally to another smoker. Yes there is a secret code of conduct. Don't ask, I won't tell you. But if you are playing a drinking game, more often then not, its an inside affair. Can't interrupt the flow of the evening. {Tally: Cigarettes left- 0-1}
10. The Leaving smoke
Another mandatory. If need be then you may have to bum one from a fellow compatriot, but nevertheless you have to have a smoke one on the way back. This cigarette offers something most other cigarettes can't: utilitarian value. Usually just reaffirms the musk of O'de Tobacco to you and removes all other noxious odors generally accumulated through an average party. {Tally: Cigarettes left- 0)
And the cycle continues. But in my defense, I work with cigarettes. They give encouragement to actually go class. Numerous times I have been laying bed, hung over like a derelict wino, and the only reason I get out of bed and make it on time is to have a cigarette before. Were synergistic goddammit.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Monday, March 17, 2008
Three Inch Horses, Two Faced Monsters
Blowing a smooth stream of smoke out of his nostrils, he reached forward and turned up the already blaring music on the radio, tapping his long, slender fingers in time to the beat. After the song had ended, he turned it down to an acceptable level and flicked his cigarette butt out the window out onto the highway, where the last dying embers glowed until extinguishing, illuminating the dark night like so many little fading flares. “I am fucking starving.” He glanced over at The Driver, who was constantly twitching his head; bobbing and convulsing to an inaudible rhythm, dancing some archaic heathen ritual long since lost to the rest of civilized man. “Knock that shit off man.”
The Driver did not respond, but with a look of concentration on his gaunt and sallow face, made a visible effort to control his movements. It must have been too much for his constitution, simply too overpowering to resist. After a few minutes the jerking began again, as if he was unconscious of the movements.
“Seriously, we need some food.”
For the first time The Driver spoke, “let’s wait till we need gas, it’s been like two hours since we last filled up, we need some soon and we can stop there and eat. Might have to be gas station food though. Should be something around here somewhere.” his method of speaking quick and jerky, releasing all the words in one violent torrent not unlike verbal diarrhea. “Do a line. That’ll do ya for a little bit”
This last remark hung in the air like a cloud of smoke and as if a manner of response, The Passenger lit another up cigarette. The silence resumed in the car, so he turned up the radio.
“Check the map, find some bumfuck town with a restaurant or something, I mean hell, there has got to be something around here. Like people need to eat and shit right?” The Driver said with a twitch.
With a troubled look on his face, The Passenger studied the map, trying to understand the concept of the folds. He began to open it unsuccessfully several times, nearly ripping it in two. After a few minutes, he threw it away disgusted. A large billboard for an all-night diner saved him the embarrassment of not being intelligent enough to open a map. “Bingo.” he said with a grin. He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a small mirror. Reaching into a pocket on his red flannel shirt, he withdrew a small bag of white powder. He scooped a little out with a Good Sam RV membership club card and dumped it onto the mirror, situated two lines, snorted one …… and put it up to The Driver’s face, handing him a cut-off straw as well. Without his eyes leaving the road, he too did his …… and lit up a cigarette immediately. The Passenger did the same, leaned back and looked at The Driver. “I got to eat something man, fucking starvin. Let’s stop at this diner.”
“Dammit. That’s just what we need. A 24-hr joint. Some white trash waitress named Trixie or Roxie. Gotta have red hair. It’s like a goddamn uniform. How far until we actually reach some form of civilization?” The Driver was not happy. “Plus, you really don’t wanna eat that shit. Who knows what we will be eating. I don’t wanna eat some goddamn road kill or some possum. Eh, you like that shit, uh? Some fuckin Possum?”
“Nah, this’ll be fun. What time is it… like two, the place will be empty, and we can have some fun with this Trixie or Roxie. You don’t even have to eat anything.”
With his twisting and jerky movements, a smile slowly broke over The Driver’s face. A slight, high-pitched giggle seemed to force itself out of his lips, only to retreat quickly where it came from. It was the eerie wheezing that is begotten only when excess amounts of speed and nicotine are consumed for many years “Hmmm…we don’t have much left to drive tonight. We could get drunk. I mean if we get too plastered, we could always stay there all night and drink ourselves back to sobriety.” The Driver said all this in a manner of seconds; quick rapid bursts of speech, all strewn together in a single thought. As if his mouth had trouble catching up to the random flow of ideas that were coursing through his brain.
“Yeah, yeah…” and suddenly, “fuck yeah! Lets do it,” The Passenger said, grinning from ear to ear. “Another line?” …… ……
Walking through the empty parking lot, they were like moths attracted to a streetlamp. The diner looked like any diner on the side of any road. It had a homey feel and except for a bleary eyed waitress smoking a cigarette at the counter the place was dead. As they walked through the front door, she begrudgingly rose from her seat and went to the front desk to greet them.
“Hiya, my name is Cassie. How many, two? Smoking or non?”
“Well, judging by the cigarette that is lit and I happen to be thoroughly enjoying right now, that shouldn’t be too difficult of a question, now should it?” The Passenger, giggling incessantly, shot back at her with a grin on his face as if this would the most fun he would have in a long time, and knowing this, was going to make it last.
With merely a sleepy glance, the waitress silently led them over to a booth. Handing them an ashtray and some menus, “I’ll be back in a minute for your order.”
The Driver continued his strange, almost rhythmic and scripted twitching, bobbing his head to some invisible beat that only he was in tune to. He too, seemed excited and was moving a little faster then normal but was sitting silently with a blank look in his eyes. He lit a cigarette, and leaned over the table and spit on the floor.
“Ahh, nice. Hey… Cassandra!” The Passenger yelled at the vicinity of the kitchen. “Dos cervesa, por favor! Vamos!” He continued giggling like a schoolgirl with a crush.
The waitress drudged back to the table, bringing with her two bottles of cheap, domestic beer.
“What can I get cha?”
“Why, Cassandra, I will have the numero uno, and another beer,” The Passenger said, his beer half empty with a large pull. The Driver followed suit with a slight head twitch and a large swallow.
“And my humble friend will have another beer also, and a side of your finest potato chips.” The Passenger said while looking at her with the same grin. The waitress merely looked blankly at the two threatening looking kids. The Driver said nothing.
“My, have I told you what lovely eyes you have?” The Passenger said with a grin. “You ought to be in showbiz. Do you have an agent? I imagine you have a beautiful voice. Are you interested in Broadway? ‘Cause I can see it in your future.” The waitress seemed not to be least bit surprised by his sarcasm and collected their menus without responding.
The Driver grinded his cigarette out onto the table and reached for his pack for another. After lighting one, he began to flick his lighter, opening and closing it rapidly. Apart from the slight twitching of his head and the noise from his lighter, there were no other signs that the place was alive. “She wants me.” The Passenger seemed to close to tears at his own joke.
“You think so? I could tell she was kinda looking at you. I just thought she was wondering what a dumbass like yourself was out past your curfew?” The Driver looked across the table, his eyes dark and hollow, bloodshot with many days of no sleep.
“Nah man, you got it all wrong. Just give it another round, and she’ll look a whole lot better.”
The Driver merely shrugged, a movement hardly discernible in between all his others. An almost oppressive silence fell over the restaurant.
Abruptly the ceaseless clicking of the lighter stopped, and The Passenger looked up excitedly. Both of them turned their heads in unison to the kitchen door that had swung open. The waitress was walking out, and no sooner had she cleared the doorway and began heading towards their table, when The Driver immediately stood up in his chair and launched his empty beer bottle towards the ceiling above the door. It went over her head but close enough to frighten most god-fearing christians. The waitress let out a scream and dropped to the floor, covering her head with both hands. The tray, fully loaded with their food, shattered to the ground and instantly covered the linoleum floor in broken glass and fragmented china plates.
The Passenger was the first to recover, mouth-hanging open; he was almost too surprised to talk. “Holy Shit! Ho…Holy shit. What the hell was that?”
The Driver said nothing, but threw back his head and laughed.
The Driver did not respond, but with a look of concentration on his gaunt and sallow face, made a visible effort to control his movements. It must have been too much for his constitution, simply too overpowering to resist. After a few minutes the jerking began again, as if he was unconscious of the movements.
“Seriously, we need some food.”
For the first time The Driver spoke, “let’s wait till we need gas, it’s been like two hours since we last filled up, we need some soon and we can stop there and eat. Might have to be gas station food though. Should be something around here somewhere.” his method of speaking quick and jerky, releasing all the words in one violent torrent not unlike verbal diarrhea. “Do a line. That’ll do ya for a little bit”
This last remark hung in the air like a cloud of smoke and as if a manner of response, The Passenger lit another up cigarette. The silence resumed in the car, so he turned up the radio.
“Check the map, find some bumfuck town with a restaurant or something, I mean hell, there has got to be something around here. Like people need to eat and shit right?” The Driver said with a twitch.
With a troubled look on his face, The Passenger studied the map, trying to understand the concept of the folds. He began to open it unsuccessfully several times, nearly ripping it in two. After a few minutes, he threw it away disgusted. A large billboard for an all-night diner saved him the embarrassment of not being intelligent enough to open a map. “Bingo.” he said with a grin. He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a small mirror. Reaching into a pocket on his red flannel shirt, he withdrew a small bag of white powder. He scooped a little out with a Good Sam RV membership club card and dumped it onto the mirror, situated two lines, snorted one …… and put it up to The Driver’s face, handing him a cut-off straw as well. Without his eyes leaving the road, he too did his …… and lit up a cigarette immediately. The Passenger did the same, leaned back and looked at The Driver. “I got to eat something man, fucking starvin. Let’s stop at this diner.”
“Dammit. That’s just what we need. A 24-hr joint. Some white trash waitress named Trixie or Roxie. Gotta have red hair. It’s like a goddamn uniform. How far until we actually reach some form of civilization?” The Driver was not happy. “Plus, you really don’t wanna eat that shit. Who knows what we will be eating. I don’t wanna eat some goddamn road kill or some possum. Eh, you like that shit, uh? Some fuckin Possum?”
“Nah, this’ll be fun. What time is it… like two, the place will be empty, and we can have some fun with this Trixie or Roxie. You don’t even have to eat anything.”
With his twisting and jerky movements, a smile slowly broke over The Driver’s face. A slight, high-pitched giggle seemed to force itself out of his lips, only to retreat quickly where it came from. It was the eerie wheezing that is begotten only when excess amounts of speed and nicotine are consumed for many years “Hmmm…we don’t have much left to drive tonight. We could get drunk. I mean if we get too plastered, we could always stay there all night and drink ourselves back to sobriety.” The Driver said all this in a manner of seconds; quick rapid bursts of speech, all strewn together in a single thought. As if his mouth had trouble catching up to the random flow of ideas that were coursing through his brain.
“Yeah, yeah…” and suddenly, “fuck yeah! Lets do it,” The Passenger said, grinning from ear to ear. “Another line?” …… ……
Walking through the empty parking lot, they were like moths attracted to a streetlamp. The diner looked like any diner on the side of any road. It had a homey feel and except for a bleary eyed waitress smoking a cigarette at the counter the place was dead. As they walked through the front door, she begrudgingly rose from her seat and went to the front desk to greet them.
“Hiya, my name is Cassie. How many, two? Smoking or non?”
“Well, judging by the cigarette that is lit and I happen to be thoroughly enjoying right now, that shouldn’t be too difficult of a question, now should it?” The Passenger, giggling incessantly, shot back at her with a grin on his face as if this would the most fun he would have in a long time, and knowing this, was going to make it last.
With merely a sleepy glance, the waitress silently led them over to a booth. Handing them an ashtray and some menus, “I’ll be back in a minute for your order.”
The Driver continued his strange, almost rhythmic and scripted twitching, bobbing his head to some invisible beat that only he was in tune to. He too, seemed excited and was moving a little faster then normal but was sitting silently with a blank look in his eyes. He lit a cigarette, and leaned over the table and spit on the floor.
“Ahh, nice. Hey… Cassandra!” The Passenger yelled at the vicinity of the kitchen. “Dos cervesa, por favor! Vamos!” He continued giggling like a schoolgirl with a crush.
The waitress drudged back to the table, bringing with her two bottles of cheap, domestic beer.
“What can I get cha?”
“Why, Cassandra, I will have the numero uno, and another beer,” The Passenger said, his beer half empty with a large pull. The Driver followed suit with a slight head twitch and a large swallow.
“And my humble friend will have another beer also, and a side of your finest potato chips.” The Passenger said while looking at her with the same grin. The waitress merely looked blankly at the two threatening looking kids. The Driver said nothing.
“My, have I told you what lovely eyes you have?” The Passenger said with a grin. “You ought to be in showbiz. Do you have an agent? I imagine you have a beautiful voice. Are you interested in Broadway? ‘Cause I can see it in your future.” The waitress seemed not to be least bit surprised by his sarcasm and collected their menus without responding.
The Driver grinded his cigarette out onto the table and reached for his pack for another. After lighting one, he began to flick his lighter, opening and closing it rapidly. Apart from the slight twitching of his head and the noise from his lighter, there were no other signs that the place was alive. “She wants me.” The Passenger seemed to close to tears at his own joke.
“You think so? I could tell she was kinda looking at you. I just thought she was wondering what a dumbass like yourself was out past your curfew?” The Driver looked across the table, his eyes dark and hollow, bloodshot with many days of no sleep.
“Nah man, you got it all wrong. Just give it another round, and she’ll look a whole lot better.”
The Driver merely shrugged, a movement hardly discernible in between all his others. An almost oppressive silence fell over the restaurant.
Abruptly the ceaseless clicking of the lighter stopped, and The Passenger looked up excitedly. Both of them turned their heads in unison to the kitchen door that had swung open. The waitress was walking out, and no sooner had she cleared the doorway and began heading towards their table, when The Driver immediately stood up in his chair and launched his empty beer bottle towards the ceiling above the door. It went over her head but close enough to frighten most god-fearing christians. The waitress let out a scream and dropped to the floor, covering her head with both hands. The tray, fully loaded with their food, shattered to the ground and instantly covered the linoleum floor in broken glass and fragmented china plates.
The Passenger was the first to recover, mouth-hanging open; he was almost too surprised to talk. “Holy Shit! Ho…Holy shit. What the hell was that?”
The Driver said nothing, but threw back his head and laughed.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Felons on Friday...
So after I realized that that my bus decided to not show and simply drive right by, sans me, to St.Louis; and after I realized that purchasing a ticket riding the rails down there ($27) and a ticket returning ($27) together would be $73.50; after I talked to my mom and cleared everything up, I finally walked back outside into the cold to have that cigarette, that delicious cigarette. A train had just departed- coming from the Lou... of course-and there was still a sizable amount of people piecing their life back together as they disembarked for what was sure to a welcome weekend spent in the cold of Central Illinois or destinations elsewhere just as miserable; there was no where pleasant itinerary that included a pit stop in Normal. No one really looked forward to walking outside in this weather for very long. The cold was so bad it'd make your hands go numb in minutes, with wind to cut through any number of cheap department store knockoff fleeces almost immediately.
"Hey man, mind if I borrow your phone."
I heard this and pulled out an earplug of my iPod and turned to address the speaker. It was a middle-aged man, a little bit stockier and shorter than me and was dressed in a plain blue coat and sweatpants. He had a nylon string bag full of other shirts and a bible. But he was smoking, and therefore, was logically incapable of being uncool. Only cool people smoke cigarettes.
He looked unassuming enough. "Sure man, not a problem." I handed him the phone and he held it for a minute and looked at it.
"Wow, sure are making these things small anymore."
I didn't really the need to respond to that and after helping him work the keys, (in his defense, my large fingers are also difficult to work with too. Drunken texting by me? Not a chance.) he made his first call. "Hey Steve!, Its me, Joe!" Yeah man, I just got out! They let me take the train back because of some snowstorm down south or somethin..........Hey man, is anyone coming to get me?.........Well where's Karen?..........What'd you mean no one's seen her?...........Well I am stuck in Normal man, you gotta send someone to get me......................What?......Give me your brother's number, yeah Tim!........Alright."
He turns to me and motions me to take a number down. Damnitt, my weakness. So I take the number down and he hangs up the phone. "Where ya heading man?"
He took a drag from his cigarette and turns to me. "I just got off the train from St.Louis. Trying to find a ride to Galesburg"
"Nice, nice, what were you doin down there?"
"I just got out of prison. "
Oh.
So...its like that. I knew immediately I was not going to ask what he was in for. Not my business. If he brings it up, than so be it, but not by my hand.
"Well congratulations man. Feel good?"
"My man, you have no idea. Everything is just a little bit prettier." And than he starts launching into this tirade of how he wasn't going to drink or "fuck around wit them drugs or nuthin," I sorta zoned out and nodded my head. It was hard to pay attention to him anyways as I had just ripped four hitters to the dome about twenty minutes ago...Plus I mean save it for the parole board. I would love for you to get you life on track, but really, really? I don't care.
"Plus I think my wife is cheatin on me. She is still on that junk shit. Shit'll kill ya quick. She is supposed to come pick me up, but no one has seen her for a few weeks"
Its now about 8 'clock and I still have over an hour to kill before my train comes. We go and sit inside the busy lobby and wait for a while. He's all fidgety and can't sit down to save his soul.
He turns and looks at me, "So they busted me witha case full of machine guns man!" Big old grin on his little face, "got me with a ten spot man."
"You just got out of prison for ten years?"
"Yup."
"Damn, am I one of the first actual conversations you have had on the outside?"
"Yeah man, and that was the first cigarette I have had in loong time."
I guess one of his friends squealed on him. He hinted at knocking on a few doors when he eventually made it back home. The rest of conversation was pretty worthless after that, we just talked about being in prison, he showed me a few tricks that maybe coming in handy one day, god-forbid.
He never did find a ride, at least while I was there. He asked me to point him the direction of the highway, figured he at least walk. "Man, I don't know if you should walk, its dangerously cold out there".... "Nah, I am a survivor, I'll make it." Yeah.
His name was Joe and was from what I saw a generally nice guy, even if he did bum a few of my smokes. But if you ever find yourself in the area of Galesburg and in need of a sizable cache of weapons, he is your guy. Or maybe, not anymore.
"Hey man, mind if I borrow your phone."
I heard this and pulled out an earplug of my iPod and turned to address the speaker. It was a middle-aged man, a little bit stockier and shorter than me and was dressed in a plain blue coat and sweatpants. He had a nylon string bag full of other shirts and a bible. But he was smoking, and therefore, was logically incapable of being uncool. Only cool people smoke cigarettes.
He looked unassuming enough. "Sure man, not a problem." I handed him the phone and he held it for a minute and looked at it.
"Wow, sure are making these things small anymore."
I didn't really the need to respond to that and after helping him work the keys, (in his defense, my large fingers are also difficult to work with too. Drunken texting by me? Not a chance.) he made his first call. "Hey Steve!, Its me, Joe!" Yeah man, I just got out! They let me take the train back because of some snowstorm down south or somethin..........Hey man, is anyone coming to get me?.........Well where's Karen?..........What'd you mean no one's seen her?...........Well I am stuck in Normal man, you gotta send someone to get me......................What?......Give me your brother's number, yeah Tim!........Alright."
He turns to me and motions me to take a number down. Damnitt, my weakness. So I take the number down and he hangs up the phone. "Where ya heading man?"
He took a drag from his cigarette and turns to me. "I just got off the train from St.Louis. Trying to find a ride to Galesburg"
"Nice, nice, what were you doin down there?"
"I just got out of prison. "
Oh.
So...its like that. I knew immediately I was not going to ask what he was in for. Not my business. If he brings it up, than so be it, but not by my hand.
"Well congratulations man. Feel good?"
"My man, you have no idea. Everything is just a little bit prettier." And than he starts launching into this tirade of how he wasn't going to drink or "fuck around wit them drugs or nuthin," I sorta zoned out and nodded my head. It was hard to pay attention to him anyways as I had just ripped four hitters to the dome about twenty minutes ago...Plus I mean save it for the parole board. I would love for you to get you life on track, but really, really? I don't care.
"Plus I think my wife is cheatin on me. She is still on that junk shit. Shit'll kill ya quick. She is supposed to come pick me up, but no one has seen her for a few weeks"
Its now about 8 'clock and I still have over an hour to kill before my train comes. We go and sit inside the busy lobby and wait for a while. He's all fidgety and can't sit down to save his soul.
He turns and looks at me, "So they busted me witha case full of machine guns man!" Big old grin on his little face, "got me with a ten spot man."
"You just got out of prison for ten years?"
"Yup."
"Damn, am I one of the first actual conversations you have had on the outside?"
"Yeah man, and that was the first cigarette I have had in loong time."
I guess one of his friends squealed on him. He hinted at knocking on a few doors when he eventually made it back home. The rest of conversation was pretty worthless after that, we just talked about being in prison, he showed me a few tricks that maybe coming in handy one day, god-forbid.
He never did find a ride, at least while I was there. He asked me to point him the direction of the highway, figured he at least walk. "Man, I don't know if you should walk, its dangerously cold out there".... "Nah, I am a survivor, I'll make it." Yeah.
His name was Joe and was from what I saw a generally nice guy, even if he did bum a few of my smokes. But if you ever find yourself in the area of Galesburg and in need of a sizable cache of weapons, he is your guy. Or maybe, not anymore.
Monday, March 3, 2008
Drugs
I was thinking the other day about why drugs make people think differently.. and it seems to come across that we think more clear when we are intoxicated.. conversation, thought, ideas, or even comedy…. Is it because we are dumbing ourselves down to think more clear? Because that’s what I was thinking.. Us as humans are really fucking smart.. really.. our brains are so awesome and packed with ridiculous amounts of information.. and what do we do to our smart high potential minds? We take drugs…. A wise man once said, “People don’t do drugs because their not fun.” So yea I get it, drugs aren’t good for you, and why?.. because they kill brain cells, they are bad for your body, and they can be additive…. So now I make the correlation between 1.) Drugs make us think more clear, and 2.) Drugs kill brain cells…. I’ve said already that our brains are just crazy with action at all times, so you slow it down.. by using drugs(not saying that it’s the only reason)…. So as I see it, we think more clear on drugs because we dumb ourselves down by killing our brain cells.. and by killing our brain cells we think more clear because there isn’t as much action going on in your brain.
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