Capnolagnia

A slimy film of mucus and ash line my throat, which occasionally alters my speech into an incoherent gargling noise. The distinct inability to breath through my nose while asleep leaves my pillow coated with saliva. My clothes smell like Nevada casinos, and my teeth are slowly transforming into bits of Southwestern corncob artifacts. I’ve replaced a balanced diet with Dollar Daze Cup of Noodle to adjust to the expenses. But god damn it, I love cigarettes. I love them when I’m stressed, when I’m relaxed, when I’m walking, when I’m driving, when I’m bored, when I’m social, when I’m antisocial, after a spicy meal, after any meal, at any time of day, at any time of night.

I’m a cigarette connoisseur. I’ve tried everything from dirty Bugler tobacco to immaculate Davidoff cigarettes, and I can tell you exactly how they all feel and taste. Smoking Winstons, for example, tastes and feels similar to sucking on a semi’s exhaust pipe, while Djarum cloves taste like Christmas and feel like the Fourth of July. Back in Utah, my decaying Neon is overflowing with old coconut and marshmallow rolling papers, tobacco crumbs and empty boxes of American Spirits, Parliaments, Lucky Strikes, and Kamel Reds.

Three days in Chicago before move in day with my zealous Mormon mother and without a cigarette, jealously watching others light up and desperately trying to breath in their secondhand smoke, was a feat that deserved three cigarettes in a row--cigarettes I was convinced I’d be smoking on my own for at least the next month and a half before I found new friends in this city. But I couldn’t have been more wrong; vices always come with friends. By the end of my first pack—about two days into student residency life—I’d already met a grip of fiends. Ask any chain smoking transfer student at Van Buren how they’ve met any of their new friends or how they find out about parties, and you’ll get the same response every time: “All you have to do is sit outside and smoke.” It’s a black mark, unacceptable and dirty, that ties us addicts together.

I’d be lying, however, if I said it was (aside from the cancer/emphysema/heart disease/tooth decay/snoring/yellow teeth and fingers/lethargy/ashtray kisses) all wonderful. Chicago has presented my habit with previously unheard of consequences. The homeless, the wanderers, the men who creep down the streets with a humble appearance and an intimidating attitude--they are entitled to one of your ten-dollars-a-pack cigarettes, whether you think so or not, and they won’t hesitate to let you know. Most of the bums have no qualms with blocking smokers’ paths, staring them down, demanding a cigarette, and yelling insults or threatening them when they refuse to give a handout. It’s just like a child’s tale of bullies’ unreasonable demands for lunch money, sort of comical. Just recently, I had to stifle laughter after a man outside my building responded to my head shake with, “Nah. I didn’t think so. I didn’t think you would. You look too stupid!” and hobbled off with his dusty quilt draped across his back.

Still, demanding hobos are no match for my sick infatuation. It’s about ten-thirty and time to run into my fiend friends. I have to work on my subconscious desire to be on the next big Truth ad, right up there with the robotic cowboy.