Blog 4 - Cigarette = Body Bag

Cigarette = Body Bag

When I look at this picture, part of me laughs while the other one slaps myself in the forehead for looking at it. I am a smoker, have been one for about 6-and-a-half years, and I understand that it is horribly unhealthy for me. I understand that there will be a time when my health takes a swan dive because of my habit/addiction, that I will end up having an odor and yellow-tinged teeth, and that my pleasure can make others uncomfortable or even sick. These are all things that I took into consideration when I started smoking and as I go about my daily life, but I continue to do it because it is my choice.

I feel the same every time I see one of these pictures or ads about how unhealthy smoking is. Every time I feel pressured to quit because it is unhealthy, and then I feel uncomfortable doing it around others that don't because they could be looking at me in a disgusting manner. However, everything that they put on these commercials is pretty much the same thing that I have known since I went through middle-and-high school health classes, just with a broader audience and a large budget. Freedom of speech is something that I value greatly, but when that freedom starts intruding into the freedom for a person or demographic to choose something, then it becomes a problem.

In my lifestyle and line of work, smoking can become a problem. Whenever I attempt to smoke at work, I tend to hide myself from view so that way people don't see me smoking, despite the fact that I wash my hands thoroughly after I am done. When I am out and about, if I am around people that don't like smoking, or are allergic to the smoke itself, I don't smoke. I tend to keep busy for the most part, and whenever I really need one, I will separate myself completely from the group in order to take care of my urges. If I am walking down the street, I keep my cigarette tucked into my palm, and if there are children around, the cigarette is out immediately. If I have to suffer because of my habit, so be it, but others will not be put in harms way because of it.

In essence, I look at the picture and feel a few different things. Shame, derision, humor, hypocritical, these are all things that I feel, because I hate something that I like to do. I can view what they are saying from their viewpoint; that smoking is a horrible habit and it should be brought into light what it does to those that smoke as well as those around the smokers. However, they should try to find new information instead of using the same stuff over and over again. Paying for cigarettes might as well be like buying a revolver and playing Russion Roulette with myself, but if it calms me down, then so be it.

Blog 1 - The Sunday

Protecting someone precious to you with everything you have is something that most people dream about. When that person or persons feel pain, you feel it acutely, as if your hearts are beating together in unison. If, however, you are unable to alleviate their pain, it is amplified further. You can speak all the pretty words you wish, but without the ability to lift away that veil of sadness for even a few seconds, they become empty and reverberate within you like a painful bell, making every beat of your own heart feel hard and cold. This is about the time that I was unable to protect someone that I care for.


After a day of work during which I had very little sleep from closing the night before, then turning around and opening the next day with every fiber of my being begged for rest, I went to my friends' home. That is what I do most every weekend, as I feel at ease there, with every worry slowly descending from thought and giving way to the warm and pleasant feeling of laughter and camaraderie that can only be shared with good friends. This day, however, worries had been eating at my mind and refused to go away. My coworker and romantic interest had an argument with her boyfriend that day. They had arguments a few times a week, as he claimed she didn't like spending time with him while she said that he always made ugly looks and hateful comments about her. She always discusses these things with me, as well as any severe problem that she has had in her life, because she calls me the listener, a person who will stop whatever he is doing to listen to what others have to say and give the straightforward criticism needed to bring things into better focus. As she had spoken with me about this problem, and it was reoccurring, I didn't think much of it. Today, though, things were different.


Only a few hours after I had gotten off a work, I received a text message from her stating that she was now homeless. When I asked to have these words clarified, she stated that because of their fight earlier that day and his consistent attitude towards her, she had become fed up and didn't want to live with him anymore. This put me in a conflicted state, which pained me as an individual, because while she was single and I could attempt to start something up between us, I was unable to have her move in with me as I live with my parents, leaving her stranded in between homes. After that discussion, I didn't speak to her until later that night, when she told me that she was just getting out of work. Realizing that I needed to be there, I told my friends that I needed to leave for the night as I had homework to take care of, then headed over to my job. I arrived to see her sitting in her car, crying into her cell phone as she talked to her father, with two of my coworkers stood nearby talking to themselves. When I got out of the car, they greeted me, then returned to work, knowing what I was there to do.


I waited by her side as she spoke to her father, listening to her cries of sadness, feeling them echo within my brain and making their way down to my heart. I sat next to her on the cement, touching her hand with my own to let her know that I was there, but remained silent so as to not interrupt their conversation. After a lengthy period of time, she hung up the phone but refused to look at me, staring down at her feet as her tears poured profusely and without indication of stopping, creating droplets in front of her that seemed like endless oceans of sorrow that I must sail upon. I put my arm over her shoulder and pulled her close, letting her head rest on my shoulder, and I rested my own head upon hers, letting her know that I there for her as I nuzzled my grizzled cheek on her head. She then began to yell in pain of anger, fear, and sadness combined, each of her worries flying out of her mouth like daggers meant to seek out the heart of her pain and run it through. I let her yell, for sometimes that is the best thing to do, but kept my hand on hers, speaking without words that I was not going anywhere, no matter what she said.


After she had calmed down a bit, we went and grabbed a soda each so we could talk to each other. The sweet taste of the soda, the bubbles of carbonation that stung the tongue like tiny bitin insects, calmed us both down, settling us back into a stable mind frame. She then said that she had to call her father again, as she had promised she would after a time, and I waited beside her as she began to talk to him once more. After only a few minutes, she began to cry once again, which ripped at my heart to listen to her talk. I could hear the rage-driven things her father was saying to her, telling her that she was ruining her life, that he knew these things would happen despite her contradictions, and my heart was ready to burst. I wanted to look to the heavens and utter a yell so strong and fierce that it would split the sky, tearing the clouds apart and taking away the power around us so that we could just lay down and look at the stars, talking to each others again in quiet, letting the two of us fly away into space together, with only the stars sparkling lights as neighbors, silently winking at us as we slept a dreamless sleep.


I could not yell, though, because I needed to remain calm for her. Quiet as the night is dark, calm as the deep ocean is blue, and sure as the tallest mountain is stable. To keep her from descending further into pain by seeing the pain that was being wrought unto me, I remained quiet, standing next to her, never leaving her side, listening to her father unleash his own anger unto his daughter who was already torn by pain. After another length period of time, she stopped speaking with him, and I wordlessly sat down next to her again, to be the rock for her to rest on. After she had finished crying again, I asked her where she was going to sleep that night. She looked to me and said she didn't know, that she would probably sleep in her car that night. I looked at her, hating myself profusely for not having someplace of my own where she could rest for the night, and told her that wherever she slept was where I was going to be sleeping. She needed me to be there for her, whether she knew it or not, but she did not argue like she normally did. She went to her car and cleaned out the passenger seat, while I went to my car and took out my emergency blanket. I was anticipating a long and restless night ahead, but I had made a promise to not leave her in pain.


Once we had settled into her car, her on the driver side and myself in the passenger's seat, she rested her head on my shoulder once again while I put my arm around her, humming softly to her in the hopes that she would calm down more. She was still fiery, though, as she continued a a turbulent period of yelling and silence, threatening to break the windows and destroy my eardrums with their volume. I let her yell, holding firm to the belief that this would help her calm her hot head and tears. My belief did me well, for after a few minutes of yelling, she calmed herself once again, resting against the headrest of her car. She remembered that she promised her father that she would call one more time, so I remained silent once again as she called him up and began to talk to him. Due to the silence of the car and the night, I could hear the words her father was speaking to her. He apologized to her for yelling at her only a short time before, telling her that he was worried and that there was nothing that he could do since he lived a couple hours away. Nearing the end of their conversation, I overheard him asking to speak with me. As I took the phone and began to talk with him, he started by thanking me for being there with his daughter during that troubling time. He appreciated what I was doing for her, for being there with her, then thanked me once again before he hung up the phone.

When I handed the phone back to her, I looked over at her for a moment as she looked back at me. I smiled at her and told her that it would be okay. At the time, I wasn't so sure of my words, but as a man who honors his words, I knew that something could be done. She thanked me, and then we both settled into the uncomfortable seats to try and get some rest. At this point, however, her boyfriend started text messaging her, telling her that he was sorry and that he wanted her to come home once again. I asked her to say whatever it was that he sent, and with each text message I became increasingly frustrated at this man that I have never met before. Everything that he sent seemed to be read directly from an elementary school poetry book, and I did not hesitate to say that to her. After about fifteen minutes of back and forth text-arguing, he called her. I remained silent, just leaning back in the seat and falling into a half-awake, half-asleep state. The hatred that surged within my veins was burning with the desire to simply go to the house and punch this unknown man in the face. It was a feeling that, as a peaceful and loving man, but made me uncomfortable but also more human than ever before, having never allowed myself the ability to become consumed by a primal rage since my high school years.

I barely registered the fact that she was done speaking with him, but it was enough to snap me awake. She turned to me, saying that she was going to go back for the night so that they could talk. As much as I wanted to say something against it, I knew it wasn't for the best, as she needed a better place to sleep than her car and there was nowhere else for her to go. We sat in the car and smoked one more cigarette, the burning smoke that filled my lungs almost matching the burning feelings within my own chest. She turned to me as we were finishing, and thanked me once again for being there for her when no one else would. I shook my head, telling her that it wasn't a problem and that I would do anything for her, that being protective was part of my nature. She smiled at me, telling me that part of my nature was what she liked the most, and said that she could truly state she had a friend here for her. As I got out of the car, she hugged me once again, and I hugged her back, adding a kiss to her head for good measure. She held me closer, and I could hear a satisfied sigh part her lips. I smiled inwardly to myself, and told her to let me know what happened the next day. She promised she would, thanked me again, and I shook my head to her promise again without speaking.

As I watched her car leave the parking lot, I sat in my car and looked out the window for a moment. I thought of how much this could possibly hurt me in the end, of an unrequited love that I have felt so many times before in my life. The reasonable part of my brain told me that I should just stop now, that I should turn away and forget about her and everything that happened. My heart, beating in conjunction with my moral soul, stated otherwise. I had given my word that I would be there for her, and I cannot go back on my word. I started my car and began my drive home, thinking on the events that had happened in the three hour period since I had first arrived. I thought of all the times that I had loved in the past, on how I treated them as if they were queens, telling myself that I would gladly give my life up to protect them, and how my heart was broken to pieces eventually along the way. My abstract mind and glued-together heart probably wouldn't be able to take too many more of these types of rejections of love again. However, it was then that I realized something about this particular time, this particular event. All those times before, I had thought that I was looking for the girl that I would give my life to protect. This time, with this woman, I realized that it was the need to stay alive to protect her, even if it meant watching from afar as she led a happy life without me.

Imperfection Is Perfection with Dirt On It

If I had to create a bumper sticker that modeled my philosophy for life, it would be "Imperfection is Perfection with Dirt On It".

Life is perfect just the way it is. We are all born with little imperfections that set us apart from one another, but that is what makes us so perfect. Without these little imperfections, differences in opinion, and life experiences that will either leave us hopeful or hateful (along with the many variances in between), existence becomes boring and dull. As often as we state otherwise, this is a truth that we come to realize eventually.

When I mean "imperfections", I'm talking about what sets us apart from each other in physical aspects first off. That is the first thing that many people think of when they hear the word imperfection. I could be talking about a nose that is slightly off, or maybe pointer or pinkie fingers that are a little longer than usual, or let's even go so far to say that you are missing an arm. I could also be talking about bricks missing from a building, or a small stutter in your car engine that won't go away. Despite how little or great these disparities are, the way they come together is unique to you and you alone. Even among twins, there can be little differences that make them unique. The many people, places, and things that happen to us on a daily basis makes life exciting.

Differences of opinion, even though it is a cause for much trouble in many different places in the world, is also a perfection hidden behind ugliness. Imagine a world where everyone thought the same, did the same things on a daily basis, agreed with everything we said to one another. That is far from ideal, the excitement in being alive is completely lost. The world would be much more peaceful, yes, but think of what is lost in the exchange. In an ideal world where everyone is the same, individuals no longer exist, and that is what makes us who we are. I may not agree with what you think when it comes to movie choices, soda preferences, or religious upbringings, but it makes for good conversation.

Life experience is also something that makes us who we are. We are not all brought up the same way when it comes to family, friends, and homes. Some of us grow up in rich homes and money to spare, while others live in small apartments struggling to put food on the table, and still others are in between, niether rich nor underpriveledged. This also means all of our experiences in jobs, parties, school, so on and so forth. These differences make our lives even more interesting, as the variety in life will sometimes change the interactions between us. This leaves us with like or dislike, rather than the worst one of all, indifference.

I, personally, have many wierd differences that make me who I am. I look at others, though, and try to see who they are. I talk to them, interact with them, find out more about them. This is all my opinion, though. I enjoy doing this, because I enjoy knowing others as friends. Everyone gives me a new lesson in life, and I walk away for the better, no matter how it ended or continued. Life is chaos, yes, but without the chaos you cannot find your own order, which makes you an individual, the perfect you.