a puff of smoke...

I know i'll be addicted to ciggies.
I can picture myself lighting up every, i don't know, very periodic intervals.
What is it with smoking anyway? In my dream-pix I haven't seen it as anything more than a style statement. I like to picture myself shaking a long lock of black hair, when i'm trying to convince someone of my point of view - while driving down this hilly road, in this really awesome car (it don't have a name yet, so advertisements do your trick!) and holding a cigarette between two fingers.
Or, squatted in a meditating position, pouring out my zen wisdom to some poor soul that's all ears, camouflaged behind my fashionable ringlets of smoke, as I smile, speak and puff away.
I was, as can be seen from the title of an old post, intrigued by the post-coital ciggy. For the uninitiated, its your nicotine dosage after the fornication. Sources tell me that's one of the best, even better than the one immediately after coffee. Lemme picture this one, naked sweaty body (my tummy's flat in the day-dream *sigh*) arms outstretched, hair spread on pillow, body, other body, one sticky kiss shared- and then out comes the lighter, and the sexy ciggy. Ooh! I think the tongue feels better then... puritans, this is your warning sign, out you go!
Its a wonder I haven't jumped up and tried one as yet, enamored as I am by the idea. I kinda want it to be special. I wanna try it one cold night, when I'm alone, out in a nice cozy place, when my hair is bra-length (grow bitch grow) and I'm preferably in a foreign country, I ask for the tobacco in this foreign language, and out comes the lighter. Just the tip of the cigarette, the candle and its reflection in my eyes lighting up my thought path...
I was a passive smoker maybe when I was 3 or 4. I've always been especially close to my roly-poly grampa, maternal. And he used to smoke. I would sit on his lap, there was this huge window which he placed his easy chair next to, and the two of us would stare into the distance - him exhaling, me inhaling. I loved the smell of smoke (that, and of petroleum) and made the mistake of telling people about it. I wasn't allowed to sit on gramp's lap since.
When my sis and her friends would smoke in their gathering, I used to chide her, ask her to stop, like this middle-aged aunt. I donno why, I always knew i was more sensible, so much so, that I must've begun to consider it my duty to 'bring her to the right path'.
But lookatme now!


Frasier: Oh now, Bebe, tell me. What is so wonderful about smoking?

Bebe: Everything. I like the way a fresh firm pack feels in my hand. I like peeling away that little piece of cellophane and seeing it twinkle in the light. I like coaxing that first sweet cylinder out of its hiding place and bringing it slowly up to my lips. Striking a match, watching it burst into a perfect little flame and knowing that soon that flame will be inside me.

I love the first puff, pulling it into my lungs. Little fingers of smoking filling me, caressing me, feeling that warmth penetrate deeper and deeper, until I think I'm going to burst! Then - whoosh! - watching it flow out of me in a lovely, sinuous cloud, no two ever quite the same.

- from Episode 3.21, Frasier, "Where There's Smoke, There's Fired"

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"I like to think of fire held in a man's hand. Fire, a dangerous force, tamed at his fingertips. I often wonder about the hours when a man sits alone, watching the smoke of a cigarette, thinking. I wonder what great things have come from such hours. When a man thinks, there is a spot of fire alive in his mind--and it is proper that he should have the burning point of a cigarette as his one expression."

- an excerpt from Atlas Shrugged

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