Le petite mort

    I haven't smoked a cigarette in nearly a week. Lit one up three seconds ago, absent of guilt. Accidentally, I walked five miles today. We have my absolute and indiscrete lack of direction to thank for that. Cigarettes are philosophical. They make me feel stoic. I find myself entitled to indulge in a tobacco-lined stick of death every so often. What does the word orgasm translate to? In French? 'Le petit mort', meaning: 'the little death'. That is what a cigarette translates to me, in my own little dictionary. I've been reading a multitude of Tom Robbins. He sure likes to talk about sex. How especially nice to read about it when I'm not having any. Personally, I like to let a cigarette hang from my lips, like I am flirting with my front porch. The weather is nice out today. Can't always make such a statement living here. My memory is too far gone to recall which television show character said this but I do recall someone saying that you "ought to hold a cigarette like it is the thing that has been missing from your hand". What a clever way to keep me lighting up. Tonight, I will make pasta because I love myself. I smoke because I love myself, though you'd infer the opposite. I do everything because I love and that is what it means to be human. My cigarette is finished and so concludes this entry.