Smoke-out.

Today's post is about my history of cigarette smoking. When I was about 16 years old, I smoked my first cigarette. Maybe it wasn't the true first, but it was the first time I actually inhaled. The other times I'm sure I didn't know what I was doing. It was a Camel Red Light (fancy, huh?) given to me by a friend of a friend. She asked me if I wanted one, I felt uncomfortable anyway, so of course I said yes. I got so high off that first cigarette. I believe that my whole life since that moment has been in pursuit of that feeling.

I smoked Turkish Golds for awhile after that. Today, I think those are absolutely disgusting, but at the time I LOVED them.

My senior year of high school, I tried my first menthol cigarette; I was 17. It was a Marlboro Mild, and I thought it was great. However, it didn't have enough menthol flavor for me. The next brand I began to smoke is a source of great embarrassment for me. I began smoking Newports. Not lights, and mediums hadn't come out yet, I'm talking about full-strength, ghetto-fabulous, Newports. I smoked them for a couple of months, and felt like I was dying. So I decided to change brands again. Plus I was tired of bumming to coke-heads.

So I smoked Camel Red Lights again for awhile until I found Marlboro Menthol Lights. I loved these so much. They didn't have the stigma that the Newports had, but they had the full menthol flavor. Also, they were very close to being a Marlboro Light which everyone smoked, but because they were menthol, no one bummed from me. I smoked these for almost a whole year, after I graduated high school, but suddenly, I didn't want to smoke menthol anymore.

I started with Camel Lights, and when they started to taste too heavy, I switched to Marlboro Lights which I have been smoking for about 4 years. I've been trying to quit for awhile now, and it's extremely difficult. At first, I thought that it was a habit, but now it has become a full-blown addiction. It really sucks not being able to quit, but honestly, I love smoking. I like breathing smoke; I think it's pretty fucking cool. I feel like I'm still 16 years old, and smoking will make me cool, and make me fit in. Only somehow, in the past 6 years, it's managed to do the opposite. Maybe I'll start smoking menthols again. I don't like other people anyway.

I'm a little money hungry.

I used to be very good about checking my bank accounts online every day. However, that was when I was new to the whole "paying bills" thing. Now, I know I don't have any money, and a visual reminder of that is really depressing. Today however, I was in a financially responsible mood, so I decided to see what my bills will be like next month. Since I'll be out of work, at least temporarily, this is kind of important.

So I check my insurance and student loan, and everything appears to be in order. Then I go look at my cell phone bill. I look at the bar graph that shows me how many minutes I've used this month. Shit, the whole thing was red! I have not gone over my minutes in three years. I have a ton of minutes and free nights and weekends. How the hell did this happen? I don't even like talking on the phone.

I've barely gotten the hang of being a jobless broke student and now I need to scrounge up at least two hundred and fifteen dollars by the 23rd of next month. I hate being poor. When I was younger and adults asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I replied, "independently wealthy." Honestly all I've ever wanted is to be free from worry about money. I guess I don't really need to be rich, I just need enough. I would do nice things for people and stuff. I'd be like Angelina Jolie only without the weird ex-boyfriends and giant lips.

I am so not checking any of my bills or bank accounts any time soon. You think if I close my eyes, it will all go away?

Fun times on the farm.

When I was thirteen or fourteen, my mother took me to visit my grandparents in east Tennessee. My grandfather had injured his leg doing something or other on the farm, and was on crutches. So we were there to help clean and cook, and try to get things around the house in order. My grandmother had always been a packrat, so we knew that we were in for tossing a lot of things out. We started in the kitchen. My mom stood on one side of a trash bag, and I stood on the other. We literally opened each kitchen drawer and threw away all the contents. We were moving along quite nicely when we opened the next to last drawer. From the inside of the drawer, out pops the head of a possum. If you have never seen a possum, let me try to explain. They are about the size of a yorkshire terrier, and look like giant rats. They have beady eyes, and a hairless, pink, long tail. They are the most disgustingly frightening creatures I have ever seen.


So there I stood, too scared to speak or move, when my mother began to scream bloody murder. I suppose all her maternal instincts flew out the window, because she ran to the other end of the house, leaving me trapped in the kitchen with the possum. I hear her announce to my grandparents in a high-pitched ragged voice that, "There - is - a - possum - in - that - drawer!" By this time I have jumped up onto the kitchen table, struggling with all my might to get out of the room with the repulsive possum. My grandfather hobbled into the kitchen on his crutches. He lifted one crutch in the air and hit the possum on the head with it. The possum was stunned, and my grandfather used this opportunity to lift it by its tail and throw it out the back door. My fear subsided, nausea took its place, and I ran to the bathroom to retch.

About two months later, my mother and I headed back to my grandparents' house. We decided not to bother cleaning for them. The thought of it still haunted me. We sat around the living room watching a baseball game, when my grandfather spoke up. "You know your possum came back. Yeah, I found it on top of the refrigerator eating the hot dog buns, so I got my air rifle and shot it." Years later, when both my grandparents had passed away, I could still see blood spatter on the ceiling in the kitchen.

I do not have the deepest southern accent, and I don't walk around barefoot, or wear overalls on a regular basis, and I have never been cow tipping. However, I have deep roots in the hills of east Tennessee. And I'm not afraid to admit that I am indeed, just a little white trash.

The real deal.

I don't need an audience, I'm here to make myself laugh.
I like fun people.
I like getting out of control.
I hate getting hit on by guys I'm not interested in.
I like receiving presents.
I love baseball and beer.
I smile very little.
I laugh a lot.
I don't spend enough time with my family.
I love the sound of laughter.
I'm honest.
I'm bitchy.
I'm rude.
I have a foul mouth.
I like a boy who knows how to make out properly.
I like singing in my car.
I like it when people make me things.
I like lakes.
I like the ocean.
I am composed mostly of water.
I don't care enough to style my hair.
I miss my childhood.
I hate packing.
I hate explaining things.
I hate explaining about my family.
Humor is really a shield to keep me from getting hurt.
I like to be the center of attention.
I hate to be the center of attention.
I love a lot of people.
I can't fucking stand a lot of people.
I need to wander.
I like my full name.
I like speaking French to myself.
I hate tilapia.
I wish I wasn't so old.
I need to read again.
I think my brain is shrinking.
I'm going to teach myself statistics.
I like this skirt I'm wearing.
I can't grow my nails to save my life.
I like sauces.
I'm kind of fun and stuff.

Grow up.

Sometimes I really don't believe that I am a good person. Today is one of those days. I acted incredibly selfish and mean. Then I never apologized or explained myself. I hurt people's feelings a lot. That's a really bad thing to do, and it's really terrible that it's become as consistent as it has. Sometimes I feel like I don't deserve the good things that have happened to me. I definitely don't deserve the friends I have. I don't know what to do about it. I'm an awful human being. I wish I was ten years old again, when everyone was mean to me. At least then I could be angry with someone besides myself. But I'm not 10 years old. I'm a grown woman. I just haven't quite learned how to grow up.

Apparently I'm not a nice person.

This post may seem unkind, uncaring, or even mean. It may even seem gosh darn un-american. But at least it's honest. Sometimes, that's all I've got going for me.

Hurricane Katrina, to me, was the most despicable display of human apathy I have ever seen. I remember watching the news that day, wanting to jump in my car and drive down there. I went online and made a donation to the Red Cross that morning at work. At lunch, I asked everyone I worked with to do the same. Each person's response was the same, "I didn't budget for that this month." What the fuck? Since when does a budget rule over moral obligation? Did these people budget for a flooded home? Donate food you're not going to eat, donate time, do something. I couldn't believe it.

Then I recalled September 11th. I was in Mississippi at the time, attending the worst school in the nation, located in the armpit of the south. (Maybe I'm exaggerating.) Anyway, I watched the towers smoke. To be honest I didn't feel a thing. I'd never been to New York, and didn't know anyone who lived there. But I watched with the rest of the world, wondering how someone could have done this. Later, I went to my government class. I had been watching the news all morning, and considered myself as informed as the next person. At this time, the news anchors had not announced who was responsible (apparently it was Saddam Hussein, haven't you heard), so everything was speculation. In my class, I was surrounded by redneck assholes (picture a room full of Larry the cable guys) who 'hollered' that we were going to go in there and get the guy that did it. Trying to be the voice of reason, I spoke up and said, "Shouldn't we use our resources in a meaningful manner, instead of acting out of anger?" Well, you should have heard the shit I got for that. A word to the wise: in a room full of country bumpkins, don't spout off your hippie, peace-loving ideas. Anyway, for me today, the only significance September 11th holds is that in 2003, that is the day my Grandma died.

Of course I'm sad for the people who lost their lives in these tragedies and their families, but the actions of the living are what really concern me.