This happened a month ago. I punctured a toothpick into the head of a white Marlboro cigarette. When I lit it up, the cigarette blazed like a volcano about to vomit lava. It felt wondrous, seeing a petty accomplishment thrive for a couple of minutes. It felt good thinking the toothpick made the taste better. When the cigarette breathed its last life, the excitement I had vanished with the air that sucked the life out of the stick that was my amusement for that short time in a cold and loud place with friends exhibiting emotions that I can’t tell if legitimate or not. The feeling was stupifying. Then I realized… It was probably time that I should stop duplicating the crazy times of my adolescence. Maybe it was time that I should stop misconstruing the concept of moving forward as a cliche for sentimental fuck-ups. Because, apparently, it’s not. Projecting an image of coolness with the inevitable admixture of immaturity isn’t gonna bring light to my already shady persona.
I should start acting my age.