September 4th, 2005

(no subject)

Love/Hate Relationship.

Chicken quesadillas don't require silverware. Because of this, I was left at the end of my lunch today with a steak knife and a fork still rolled neatly in a napkin and tied together with a sticky piece of paper. This apparatus, combined with an unsatisfied oral fixation, twenty four hours without a cigarette, and a basket of tortilla chips, fueled my rage and turned me into a practically motorized chip smasher while I vented my frustration and screamed my many annoyances with those wretched black sticks of death.

Mash! Mash! Mash! I slammed the basket of remaining chips with the bottom of the knife still rolled into my napkin. They crumbled underneath my heavy slams just as I wanted them to, breaking so easily at my fingertips. They fell into tiny little crumbs that had no individual mass or taste. I crushed and crushed and crushed and they mashed and mashed and mashed.

Mash! Mash! Mash!
"This is for being such a pain in the ass to light on windy days!" I yelled, pulverizing the poor chips below my utensil.

Mash! Mash! Mash!
"This is for breaking when I wasn't finished with you!" I yelled, still remembering the pain and heartache I would feel every time I'd pull a cigarette from my pack only to have its weaknesses kill it right before I got to indulge, robbing me of a good twenty five cents and ten minutes of satisfaction.

Mash! Mash! Mash!
"This is for how much it sucked to love you in the Winter, when my fingers were going to fall off, and how you can't be smoked with mittens or gloves! And how I would shiver in my car with the window barely cracked just to fucking smoke you! And how in the summertime I can't smoke you with both my windows rolled down because the smoke will go every direction and totally ruin the wonder of exhaling!" I yelled louder as I grew more frustrated.

Mash! Mash! Mash!
"This is for not being able to make a debit card purchase without spending a minimum of ten dollars, and having to buy two packs when all I really want is one because if I have two, the second one screams at me to smoke the first one faster so I can move onto the backup pack!" I pounded the chips into the basket, crushing them into tiny pieces no larger than grains of salt, yet I the more I smashed, the angrier I became.

Mash! Mash! Mash!
"This is for all the times I was supposed to share cigarettes with someone else but then I'd forget and smoke half of it and feel really bad! And all the people that would only take two drags before passing it back and then I'd feel obligated to only take two drags before handing it back when I really wanted to take five or six!"

Mash! Mash! Mash!
"This is for all the times I expected you to taste really good and then I lit you and you tasted like shit!" I wanted those chips to be cigarettes between my fingers as they moved in a scissor-like motion, snapping them in half and ruining all their potential in one swift movement of my hand, and one unreasoned thought of my head.

Mash! Mash! Mash!
I would never stop mashing those chips as long as I was thinking about the last pack of cigarettes I'd smoked.
"This is for the way you taste awful and the way you smell disgusting after you've been put out and saved for even five minutes!"

Mash! Mash! Mash!
"This is for all the times I had to share you with people that slobbered all over the filter or crushed it in their fingertips and gave it back to me all mushy and unappetizing!"

Mash! Mash! Mash!
"This is for fitting in the butt pocket of my jeans so perfectly and then crushing when I forget you're there before I sit on your for two hours!"

Mash! Mash! Mash!
"This is for the parts of your cherry that explode when I flick you into an ashtray and you send bits of burning ash onto my bare skin and leave me with absolutely nothing to do but yelp and sit there until the pain stops!"

Mash! Mash! Mash!
"This is for tasting so fucking awful when someone says something funny and I'm in mid-drag, sending my entire cloud of smoke through my mouth in an unexpected exhale that comes so quick that I can feel the burning and taste the disgust in the back of my throat!"

I blinked and looked back into the basket of chips with a more logical eye. The chips were certainly no longer identifiable as the chips they had been; warm, crisp, crunchy tortilla chips. No, now they were the finished product of my disturbance. They were absolutely crushed into a heap of salty powder that nobody else at the table could have the opportunity to enjoy to, say, get their mind off smoking a cigarette. I had found no mercy in my mashing session and all I had wanted was to vent on all the problems cigarettes had caused for me in the four years I'd spent smoking them like they'd never have an impact on me. And when it was all over, all I really wanted was another basket of chips to mash through, because I realized why I hated cigarettes more than any reason I'd yelled in the past five minutes. My brutality was a result of a craving, and just as I should've expected, another craving a result of my brutality. I only hated cigarettes to the extent that I did because I loved them the exact same amount.