So I smoked.
I listened to the Smiths.
I carverd up my body and then, when I was done, bled sonnets into the frost bite of the page.
We smoked more.
When people would gripe that smoking was a disgusting and that it caused cancer I retorted by saying that it was "convivial" since it brought people together, if only to bum a light. When someone would tell me they were going to endeavor to quit smoking I would chide, "What are you going to do after sex? Talk about your feelings???"
There was smoking across the street from Manual on Griswold with Dave Strickler and later getting tattled on by Gary Bybee, the tenacious track coach Coach Winkler calling us into his office for remedial interrogation, where of course, we both lied our asses off. Later Strickler would abandon the team and I would too, claiming, I just couldn’t do it any more, my dream of being an Olympic athlete transitioning into dust, or rather, flecks of ash tapered off from the stem of a smoke consumed in snorkeling gasps between classes.
For a long time I smoked two packs (plus) per day, pelting sentences out on an old moribund diesel-engined Smith-Corona that intermittently binged coercing one to shove the platen to the right in off-tempoed slaps every fifteen seconds if you were pounding away. I lived in a boarding house on Columbia Ter. close to the Columbus statue in Bradley park and twice (note Twice) I had to go to the emergency room because I developed stys from chain smoking while looking down into the river of vowels and synaptic glyphs in the keyboard below.
But there's more....my ardor towards smoking continues to ameliorate in new found pungent huffs of bliss.
You'll just have to keep on reading to find out more.