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My first Cig

Slurred Russian babbled from the TV as Viggo Mortensen just finished banging some poor Ukranian hooker. I looked around. I felt like shit, as was normal when I was up til 3 o’clock all alone in my room. Something about the night, old feelings, old thoughts and memories came to me. That’s how it always was nowadays though. Alone, in my room, some movie I only half cared to see what on, unless it was Fight Club in which case I was always up for seeing.
My father had just went to bed in a slurred drunken haze. He wasn’t always drunk, and he wasn’t a violent drunk, so I didn’t have much to complain about, but this had become a fact in my life: It was Friday night, my father was drunk. That was simply how it was.
But, feeling particularly crummy, my mind was no longer in it’s proper state. All my life, I was a proper anti-smoking advocate. I even went so far as to one summer destroying all my father’s cigarettes, which he didn’t appreciate in the least. But tonight, something was different.
I was sixteen, and as we all know, these tend to be the times of trials and tribulations, of learning what one likes and doesn’t, experimenting until one finds the formula of who makes them who they are.
I couldn’t drink, seeing as I wasn’t up to the task, and the fact that my father only stocked beer (which is possibly the most foul liquid on the face of the earth, right between RAID and CLOROX), things that would normally seem unappetizing had a sudden appeal.
They say the most common reason for teens doing stupid things is boredom. The proper answer is hormones I think. Or perhaps the human condition. But, whatever the reason, having a cig hang from my lips seemed like it might lighten my mood.
I stood from my computer chair, ignoring the well-dressed Viggo as I slowly trotted down stairs, not making a noise until I got to the kitchen counter where my father dropped all things from his pockets. I glanced around, and bingo; a lighter and a pack of cigarettes, Marlboro Lights. I picked it up, grasping one from the packet, I ran back to my room, lighter in hand. I closed my door tight, then went behind my computer desk and opened the window.
Slowly, I put the cigarette between my lips and flickered on the lighter, putting it to the tip of the cig and gently breathing in. I sat the lighter down and just watched the smoke flicker away from the cigarette and out the window.
Gently, I sat it back between my lips and inhaled slowly, a small amount before pulling it away and releasing the inhaled smoke. I felt no different, not better, but not worse. So, I continued smoking. I even tried the exhaling through the nose (which was cool when looking in the mirror, but left a slight burning sensation in my throat). Soon, the cigarette was coming near the filter and I decided I had enough. There was a small glass bottle open near the window sill, so I put the cigarette out in there and closed the window.
Sitting back into my seat for a moment, I could still feel the burning in the back of my throat. I spoke to myself a bit, repeating Viggo’s Russian accented words to make sure my voice hadn’t changed, “He offered me stars, I accept.” No change. I was okay.
I grabbed a bottle of Febreze my friend had left, and sprayed it thoroughly throughout my room and some in the hallway.
The white knight of smoking for twenty minutes put on a highwayman’s cloak and hat, then sank back into the white armor.
It changed nothing. I still felt like crap.
But you know what?
I’m glad I did it.

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