If I’ve noticed one thing in the last couple of months, it’s been this: My friends who smoke are schizophrenic and my time with them is confirming that I am lacking in certain amount of mental stability, as well. It’s reminiscent of those relationships we witnessed in high school (albeit from the inside or from the comfort of yours or someone else’s couch) that were tumultuous, sad and oh so entertaining, although exhausting. You know the ones I speak of. The conversation starts like this, “you know what Joel? That’s it, I’ve decided that it’s time, so-and-so and I are through, fini, kaput…I mean it. We’re done.” However, that conversation was uttered when the rooftops still had frost and as soon as it melted we all saw them gazing in each others eyes with that sickening look causing many to vomit, or mock, or both. It’s like the hard hitting conversations I’ve had with my brother, or my father, or even that of the Surgeon General and his, her, or whomever’s carefully placed and oh so instructional warnings, they’re just flaccid. They have the same penetrating force a Ford Focus has upon the rear end of an Excursion. “Huh? What? Something hit me?”
And therefore (like that great song of old) I am convinced, unequivocally, that these two unique yet not mutually exclusive conversations have allowed modern man the ability to master the art of the perceived attentiveness. “I mean it. That’s it. I’m quitting. I haven’t bought a pack in like five days.”
“Uh huh. Yeah. I know. This time IS different. I know you’ve been working out. Yes, you look good. Of course I believe in you.”
It always ends the same.
“Hey man, hold up. Excuse me, would you mind if I bought a cigarette off of you for a buck?”
--“Dude, no worries. I believe in cigarette karma. I don’t charge.”
“Oh, you rock. Got a light.”
And there they are, making out again.