How I started smoking.

I am glad that most of my bad choices do not leave marks upon me. If, I had a tattoo for every bad decision.  I would be marked up like Lil’ Wayne.

I reel at my own decisions.  I am almost impervious to peer pressure. You will never get me to do your drugs, join your church, or pyramid scheme. You can, get me to smoke.

I learned to smoke cigarettes, as a matter of life, or burn.

I was at a university, on a road trip with friends. We were staying with someone’s, sister. The sister was trying to push me to give my virginity to her brother.  In hopes to prevent him from being gay.

She decided, she was to going make me, beautiful. We were watching the Miss America pageant. We were drinking. She came to the conclusion, that she was going to hot comb my hair. Hot combing is the most hazardous hair process. It is torture. Wax, metal combs on an open flame, the tender flesh of your ears, and forehead are a very bad equation. This girl was possessed she was going to make me, beautiful. To lure her brother into heterosexuality. It involved straight hair. She was very adamant in a way, only, the very drunk, are.

So, she got out the tools for my destruction. The jar of pressing wax. The glass coated, greasy, sickly pink, smelling of petroleum. The burnt up towel that you test the hot comb on. Stiff, rough, charred, and dirty.  A jar  half full of dirty water, to cool off the hot comb.  A towel, to drape upon my shoulders.  It was filthy, covered in make up. I watched this girl laying out these things and pondered my fate. She was going to singe my hair. She was going to burn the most sensitive parts of my person.

I couldn’t leave. The university town was in the middle of nowhere. The car was a stick that drove in. I could not drive a stick.

My virginal self, was fucked. Meanwhile, guys were at a concert. She had me try on outfits. She laid out make up, perfume, skin cream.  She did not stop drinking screwdrivers.  She set up her bedroom for romance.

My mother was gambling, at a reservation casino. She was consistantly unreachable.  If I called her, she would probably tell me to let the deranged girl, hot comb my hair. My mom loved me, only with straight hair.

While, the contestants were answering the every difficult evening gown question. I shifted on the rent-a-center black leather couch, praying for a pardon.

The sister looked at me from her green contact lenses. And, said “I need a cigarette.”

I told her, I had never smoked before. She then took two hours to teach me how to smoke a cigarette properly. I left the college town completely intact. The girl’s brother is supposedly heterosexual. He spends a lot of time in, Thailand.


1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. contoveros
    Oct 06, 2010 @ 18:58:26

    So, what does your hair look like today?

    What is she doing now, selling wigs?

    What is it with you and guys that have questionable sexual preferences? Not that there’s anything wrong with it, but first it’s this girl’s brother, and than your first husband. (Yeah, sweatheart, I think they’ll be another for you. Let’s hope there’s lots of love and compassion next time around. And STRAIGHT.)

    michael j


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