Smoking Simian Scribbles: The psychology of smokey dokes. Or how I learned to be a pariah and start loving the shunning.

Greetings!

Welcome to the road less traveled where all of your monkey pic needs are satisfied.
I do enjoy being a resource, a clearing house, a repository of the inane.
Sometimes I even have something to say!

Today I would like to discuss smoking.
I'm a smoking monkey.

Yes, yes I am.
I'm a monkey with a monkey on my back.

But my monkey is a Masseuse. Clever little fellow, my monkey knows how to banish my stress, keep me calm, and ease the urge to fling poo.

Not actual poo. That's disgusting.
Metaphorical poo.

I love my monkey. Who cares if his weight is slowly pushing my lungs out the front of my body!

I smoke clove cigars.

How 80's anachronistic am I?! Eh?

Regular smokes are disgusting. They stink. At least my clothes smell of spice.

Yes...I can bend space and time with the amount of spice I ingest.

I'm a polite smoker. I do not smoke near children, I always ask if the smoke will bother someone before I light up, and I do not litter; those butts are put safely in a bin. My adoration of my vice makes me an outcast in today's health conscious society. Whatevs, man. You say pariah, I say quiet contemplation/creative time.

I abhor rude smokers. You know the type: Lights up in closed spaces, waves the cig around like a laser pointer, dumps ashes everywhere, with the sick stick clenched between their teeth rude smoker approaches children, puffing madly and crop dusting carcinogens over tender pure-lunged youngins.
People who smoke around kids are complete and total ASS CLOWNS. Seriously. It's just not okay.
Eejits. The lot of them.
Have I just described you, rude smoker? Sorry.
(Not really)

OH MY GOD!!! YOU HATE SMOKERS!
I do, too. Let's be pals.
No?
It's bad for me you say?

It's a disgusting habit? I'm a horrible person? It's what killed the dinosaurs? You have graphic photos of smokers' lungs to show me?

I'm going to die???????

Everything dies eventually.

I'm a horror writer. Nothing scares me.
(That's a total lie. Lots of things scare me.)

clowns...why did it have to be clowns? Very dangerous...you go first.

Let's get back to the discussion, shall we? This blog goes out to the smokers ~ the proud, the few, the sneaky-outside-breathmint-'no I wasn't smoking'-weather resistant- brethren. Oh we happy few (deedeedeeeeeeedadoooooo). Smokers like me, join and rejoice in our filthy vice!

I smoke when I write. I have an outside office.

I've said before that I channel good old Gonzo himself (Hunter S. in the brain!) without the bats or drugs. Instead I have stinkbugs, hummingbirds (I get dive-bombed all of the time due to my glorious mane of RED hair), cloves, and copious amounts of caffeine.

I have certain rituals regarding smoking: the tap on the new pack, the careful removal of the cellowrap and foil, the first smoke acknowledgement.

This is important.
I channel John Lovitz from News Radio, and in his voice I say, "Cigarette, prepare to be smoked!"

In my mind it makes the smokey doke less inclined to do damage to the lungs.

It's a quirk. What can I say?
But it works for me.

Phase I

Happy smoke, smoke, smoke....type, smoke, read a bit, smoke. Sip coffee. Smoke half a one and put it out. Toss it in the butt can; I have a whole pack. I can be decadent. Chain smoking my way to creative incandescence.

Ahhhh. Blessed silence. No one bothers me in the sacred smoke bubble.

Phase II

Hours later -- uh-oh. I only have four smokes left. Just let me get this chapter finished.
{looks at accumulated halfsies and poorly stubbed remnants of the sacred inspiration flaming stick}

Phase III (usually at 3:00 am or when it's impossible to leave the house for another haul of clovey goodness because the kids are NOT going to be left at home alone. Ooof. Another pet peeve: kids who are neglected! Sack up parents!)
Back to the regularly scheduled whingeing
Damnit.
I'm out!
Why did I just crush those half smoked ones?! Why was I not more careful????
I don't want to put on pants and go up the way to the minimart!

I sit and remember each puff on that first smoke, the negligent and wasteful tossing away....
The horror...the horror.

Phase IV: THE HOBO FACTOR

This consists of rummaging in the butt bin for salvageable smokes.
Come on....we've all done it.
When I'm out in my office I tend to channel my inner bag lady. Multiple layers of jackets, fingerless gloves, uncombed hair.... It's frightening.
The smokes are stale or dewy, and I say outloud, "This is disgusting. You should just quit."