The Smoker, Part 1

I should smoke a lot more than I do. I want to emphasize, A LOT MORE, because I do not smoke at all. Instead I take deep inhalations of second hand smoke whenever I happen upon cigarettes and I even at times find myself seeking out smokers so that I can stand around them. The irony of this is that I can not stand cigarettes. I have never been much of a smoker nor do I have any deep desire to smoke. I simply like the idea of smoking and all that second hand smoke has to offer. There is something ethereal and contemplative about smoking. Something that emits an energy of insouciance and contentment. I often long for these emotional responses but seldom find them. Instead I exist in a perpetual state of anxiety where the absence of happiness, fulfilment and purpose sends me into a dark trance where often I will remain for days. I often wonder if smoking will offer me the pre-packaged benefits of the happiness I long to find, but my guess is that the second hand smoke is as good as it gets. Like unhappiness, melancholy, masturbation or depression, smoking is a wicked addiction that is almost impossible to break without the assistance of a pill, patch or circumcision.

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