My Discourse on Smoking

As I mentioned in my previous post, I took up smoking in late October, early November of this year, as a surprise to my friends and especially to myself. I mentioned that I had gotten both of my parents to stop smoking at least 7 years ago, as well as my ex-girlfriend in 2006. Up until I started, I was extremely anti-smoking, seeing as how my one grandmother died of emphysema around the age of 65. Being a product of American society educated in the '90s, it was ingrained into my mind that smoking kills. And this post will attempt to explore the world of a smoker who was once a non-smoker and who will become a non-smoker in time.

It all started several days after I had my bike transferred to campus. I had biked down to this newfound spot that I discovered next to the HUB (the student union center on campus which also houses several well-known restaurant chains including Sbarro and Seattle's Best); it was a quiet plot of ground which contained several benches and small paths of stone walkways which meandered around grass patches and large flat boulders. I biked here intentionally to call my mother on the phone and have a private conversation with her, outside, on a beautiful day, outside of the confines of my extremely small and stuffy dorm. When she didn't answer the phone, I was a little disheartened since I had come here specifically for that purpose. I tried several other people on the phone...no one seemed to be conscious. I then thought to myself quite boldly, "This is the type of situation where one would smoke a cigarette [to wait until someone saw that I had called and then call back]."

It was then that I made the decision to buy my first pack of cigarettes. I consulted my new best friend who had told me that all of her friend back home are smokers and questioned her about which kind/brand of cigarette should be my first. She suggested the new "Marlboro Smooth", which she said tasted like an Andes Candy...how could I pass up a cancer stick that tasted so good?

I called my soon-to-be boyfriend (who had been and probably still is a veteran smoker) and announced that I would like to make such a purchase. Thus, we trekked downtown to scout out the Smooths, made the purchase, and hiked back uphill to the exact rock from which I made the decision to start smoking. It felt somewhat badass at first since I had been raised to believe that what I was now doing was somewhat of a carnal sin, but after conceding that I would only have one-per-day (which would give me a great buzz), I legitimized my new burst of fun, something to look forward too each day. Of course, everyone knew that this one-per-day would go out the window sometime in the near future (which, of course, it did), although I proceeded to believe that I could stick with my plans to have this treat just once every 24 hours.

Soon thereafter, I started having these "postprandial" cigarettes with my newly-close friend, Katie, (postprandial meaning "after a meal, especially dinner"). From there, the act of smoking changed from being the action of me lighting the cigg, holding it to my lips, inhaling and exhaling until it was killed, to being a social activity which involved a certain recap of the day, many meaningful conversations, and a subtle breakup of the normal flow of the day. Obviously, one wants such a good thing to happen more often (the good thing being the good conversations, etc.), so I gradually began to smoke more and more, although I never chain-smoked or (initially) out of stress or anger like many long-time smokers. I refused to smoke between classes, and would almost exclusively smoke with Katie or Sam (my soon-to-be boyfriend).

Gradually, the act of smoking became the perfect thing to do in times of sublime boredom when I would just crave something to focus on. I started smoking between classes starting around wintertime, especially to take my mind of the freezing-fuck cold. I would smoke by myself to obtain seven minutes out of my day when I would be completely alone, outside, to sort out all the things that were going on in my life, in my daily schedule, and to make plans for the near and distant future, along with having regular smokes with Katie and Sam.

There was a time when I denied that I was a smoker, simply because I didn't feel it was fair to put me on the same level as those that were smoking a pack a day or more...having a beer doesn't make someone an alcoholic, nor does smoking 3-6 cigarettes a day (on average) make someone a smoker, necessarily (in my head). However, I finally conceded that I had become a smoker, and that I had to do something about it.

Katie and I had decided to quit together. One of us (not sure who) simply chose the date of April 15th, which we realized later would be tax day, a day to get rid of all negativity and that which is harmful. We counted down the days until around 11:40pm on April 14th when we went out for our final cigarette. In order to document this occasion and to give moral support, I invited Alex, and Katie invited her boyfriend, Neil. We had photos taken during the lighting of what was to be our last cigarette, photos take while we smoked it, put it out, and hugged each other as we knew the road ahead would be tough. We then took the last three cigarettes that we had and ceremonially broke two of them, one for each of us, and then the last one together.

I made it a solid 36 hours when I decided that I simply wasn't ready to quit...not because I NEEDED a cigarette, but because I wasn't ready to give up the special times that the allotment of the time that smoking a cigarette gave me, the unique conversations that only happened with Katie and others sporadically and intermittently throughout the day which I found simply couldn't exist in their same form without lighting up. So I broke and bought a pack at CVS and sunk back into my old ways. Katie held up quite a long time, several weeks, which, of course, made me feel weak, but I have much respect for her ability, especially as she has been a smoker for much longer than I have. I am currently contemplating quitting, contemplating for reasons which I will now explain in the true discourse...

In retrospect, I feel that the college environment exposed me to the feeling of "just letting go" and simply "experiencing", without necessarily thinking of the consequences because this time is supposed to be the best time of one's life and one should live it directly up to its edgy potential. This, combined with my then-boyfriend's habits, gradually led me down this path, along with my long-cultured cynicism for the world which I was then experiencing for lack of direction, along with my simple curiosity and audacity to try new things. It is mostly because of such cynicism that I continue (although much more sparsely than before), as I am the one who believes that the world could end at any minute, that everyone will die in the end and absolutely everything, EVERYTHING, that we will have done up to that point will have meant not a trifle more than jack shit. So, if I can have a cigarette intermittently throughout the day which becomes a certain deserved bonus for living in the first place, what's so wrong with that? Of course, it chokes your lungs, pisses off your body, and poisons your life-liquid, but why not?; we WILL all die some day, somehow...would I rather live to where my ass is strapped to a colostomy bag or simply die of lung cancer. Of course, I'm not mentally retarded - I would love to live to see my children and grandchildren grow up...even my great grandchildren, and I recognized that such a habit may hinder said wishes, and this is the constant battle going on in my head, this, along with "you may never even have kids...you're gay." And at this notion, I smile, because it's accurately true, and just goes to show that some of your greatest dreams (to have children that look like you and your partner) can and will be fucked in the end.

As soon as I started smoking, I told myself and everyone else that I would write a discourse at the end...well, I haven't quite come to the end, but I have written my discourse, and I'm quite proud of it...at least this is one thing that I have gone completely through with and of which I have no regrets.

Freshman Retrospection

After having completed my first year at The Pennsylvania State University's main campus in University Park, PA, I decided that now is as good of a time as ever to reflect on my impressions, new ambitions, and just to inform the blogosphere about this now gone section of my ever-linear life.

Since August 24th and until May 9th, I called 105 Sproul Hall my home. This small cubicle of about 120 square feet was shared with a roommate. This small cubicle, I called home. As I opened the door on August 24th, I was instantly frozen as I peered over the austere surfaces which were screaming for personalization and character, begging me to lay a paper or two atop the desk simply to break up the void of nothingness. By May 9th, I had collected a good heap of shit, ranging from a large 3x5 German flag which I had hung proudly in my room during early fall when it was still 90 fucking degrees while I blasted my techno music, making sure passers-by would easily see my German pride as I lived on the first floor, to a plethora of cards which had been bequeathed to me for various reasons. Although the area seemed extremely small, especially as my partitioned 60 square feet also included a bed which took up about 15 sq ft, and a desk, bolster, and closet which took up around 20 sq ft, and half the area occupied by our shared minifridge, the space was extremely functional, I became especially proud that my space had in it a place for absolutely everything, organization which I never thought was possible, and that's when I decided that I would be quite satisfied with living in a small apartment for the rest of my life, so long as the city outside my door was large enough for me to breathe.

College has thankfully pushed me to the edges of acceptance, expansion, and has made me somewhat jaded to the differences in people I see everyday. Nevermore do I turn my head to look at someone who has dreadlocks or slanted eyes, especially as people wearing chicken and banana suits aren't uncommon prowling around outside of specific frat houses. My group of close friends includes a Chinese-Jamaican (my best friend), a Chinaman from Hong Kong, an Indian who's half-white, and a girl who is so white that she can trace her lineage back to William Bradford, the first governor of the Plymouth Colony.

Several of my stereotypes have changed, or, rather, stayed the same, but from a different perspective. I had Jersey people all wrong - I used to think they were bad drivers, but, after having driven on the Parkway, I've found that they're just assertive and know where the fuck they're going and how they're going to get there - I seem to have a newfound appreciation for those from the Garden State. I've found that, against my sincere wishes, it seems that several long-standing stereotypes are true...1.) Chinese women should not drive - I was only ever almost hit by two people on campus, both were Asian, both were from Connecticut [strangely]...2.) Black men can be incredibly loud, and thereby inconsiderate, which I found out when my neighbor refused to stop screaming, stomping, and cheering at 3am while playing Madden, especially after having asked him to stop for several consecutive nights and after having notified my RA, who proceeded to visit his room several times.

Let's talk about firsts - I had my first experiences at traditional Frat parties, complete with beer pong, stripper poles, and d.i.y. cocktails. I discovered the elegance and pleasure of the hookah at Chronic Town. I pulled a complete 180 when I started smoking around November, after having gotten both of my parents and my ex-girlfriend to stop smoking. I would elaborate here about the "smoking thing", but that's quite a lengthly topic which would be more appropriate in a post of its own.

Obviously, it was my first time being a college student, which I MUCH prefer (to make as much of an understatement as possible) to being a high school student where teachers are on power trips and good students (i.e., me) get detention for "holding a teacher's calculator hostage" (which I actually didn't, btw). The atmosphere is so much more freeing and is the type of thing that I have been searching for for a very long time; especially coming from living on a mountain for a solid 13 years, being able to step outside and be around so many people my age instantly was something that I began to take for granted which I now hate myself for. I was able to walk on a sidewalk for nothing more than 20 seconds to our convenience store and dining commons to purchase anything that I then desired, from Bold Chex Mix to Advil and Trojan condoms.

I've experienced the dilemma of being the typical college student who is notorious for being poor, which is most definitely a learning experience and sick study into this thing called a "budget" and "saving". However, I coped with this quite copacetically through the donation of (rather, sale of) my plasma. Two times per week, usually Wednesday and Saturday, I would allot a two-hour chunk of my time to the donation of my plasma at Biolife, downtown. Each donation, I would make my appointment by phone, the the bus downtown, show up and scan my fingerprint, take a quite lengthly electronic questionaire on a touchscreen (have you taken Avodart in the last 12 months, have you EVER taken Tegison, have you had sexual contact with another man EVEN ONCE since 1977), have my fingernails looked at under a blacklight, have my arms checked for trackmarks (both front and back), have my weight taken, have my finger pricked, blood drawn, temperature and pulse taken, and my blood checked for protein and iron content...if I passed all that, I would then proceed to the hallway where I would wait for a bed to open up where I would then be prepped with a quite large amount of iodine, stuck with the needle, listen to my iPod for a good 1.5 hours, be patched up, scan out, and be on my good fucking way, freezing my dick off because of the room-temp saline which they pumped into me and with a bright pink fucking band which they wrapped my wound with, tight enough to cut off the circulation to my forearm.

Being at a top drinking school, I've seen my fair share of drunkards, from that crazy bitch that stumbled into Dunkin Donuts at 1am, well announced by her exclaiming "I WANT SOME NUTS!!!...DONUTS, that is!", proceeding to tell her life story to a table of adults enjoying their blueberry lattes and vanilla bean coolatas, which included her most recent debacle trying to get into a frat house - "I tried to get into this one frat, but the guy said 'you're too drunk', so I was like 'suck my TITTIE!!!'", to one of my good friends who passed out on the floor of his supplemental room only in his boxers, with his head in the trashcan, BEFORE they even left the room to go to a party.

Now, all but a sophomore, I can't say that I have any regrets from my freshman year...I got involved in the worst relationship of my life, but I've taken from that what I could in order to never make such a stupid mistake again by thinking that you can force someone to let you help them. I've made some friends who I know will have a continual significant impact on my life and its course, not simply some associates whose only common thread we have is some shared gen. ed. class. I feel quite confident in saying that I wouldn't mind repeating this past year of my life again, and again, and again, and again...