I had just returned back to the house after dropping the boys off at school after what I commonly describe as "Thing 1's nuclear meltdowns". And the cause this time? Who the hell knows; I can't keep track anymore.
I was fucking exhausted.
Baby was actually sleeping in her carrier when I took her out of the car to go into the house. I noticed my neighbor's 18 year old son across the street, sitting in his car and smoking.
Now, I hadn't had a smoke for 9 months -- my last one being about 45 minutes before I peed on a stick.
At least it wasn't 45 minutes AFTER I peed, so whatever. Shut up.
Maybe it was my exhaustion that was driving my decisions, but I swallowed my pride and went over to the kid, "Can I get a smoke off you?"
"Sure. They're menthol though."
MENTHOL?! Things have sure changed since I was in high school, but beggars can't be snobby bitches, I guess.
I lied, "That's fine." All I knew is that I wanted to hold that stick between my fingers and hold it between my lips, so a pansy-assed mint flavored cigarette would have to do.
As the boy handed me the cigarette, he pleaded with me, "Don't tell my mom, okay?"
I backed away from his car and just smiled, "No problem. Don't tell my husband, okay?"
He nodded and laughed.
As I touched a flame to the end and inhaled, despite it being a tad minty, it was so goddamn glorious.
Smooth and satisfying, as if I was living inside a cigarette poster from the 40s.
I haven't had one since that day, but let's not discuss the 2lbs of M&M's I've had instead...
|That's me, can't you tell?