I love my vices. That’s why I keep them around, put “my” in front of them. Suppose that’s true for most. But cigarettes-- what a charming, sexy, satisfying vice.

Just went on a trek for cigarettes and came back empty-handed (I’m using the word trek liberally, but the craving made it feel important, my fuckin nicotine pilgrimage).

I got home earlier and really wanted a cigarette. Wanted one all day. Actually all week, but didn’t realize that it was the thing giving me that itch until a half-hour ago. At the grocery store today, I peered over at the case where they keep them, by the registers, locked up tight, all tucked together in neat rows, special brands donning a two for one sign, little cellophane-wrapped boxes. A special trip necessary for the cashier in order to retrieve my lovely smokeable lovelies. Couldn’t bring myself to do it. Bought an extra carton of soy milk and thought I’d call it a night—living the life of a rock star over here. Then I got home, went inside my apartment, remembered that there was what I thought to be a half of a cigarette left over from a joint-rolling session. Left the apartment, got to the car, found said tobacco product only to discover that there was no tobacco to be had, just paper, just the recessed filter of a Parliament that seemed to say, “You can’t smoke me my pretty!” before cackling. I promptly crumpled the paper, and yes, I littered. What the crap? So then I decided I would walk to the corner store to see if it was open, perhaps purchase some Vitamin Water as well (some good intentions). Got halfway up the hill and was out of breath. Decided I shouldn’t be smoking.

I always wanted to smoke cigarettes when I was younger. Pot too. I definitely had (have) all sorts of hero-worship of my older brothers flowing through me. They listened to Rage Against the Machine, I told my friends in the fifth grade about “Killing in the Name,” my new favorite song. Little soft-spoken me, braces, glasses, the works, mouthing “Fuck you I won’t do what you tell me!” waiting in line to play four-square at recess. So it was, Mike and Dave smoked, I was determined to be a smoker too.

My first cigarette got scrunched in my pocket, bent at the center, loose brown tobacco coming out at the end. Hiding at the edge of the forest behind my old house, I struck match after match only to have them hiss out an instant after they sparked. And then finally, victory, successful lighting of deformed Camel Light stolen from Mike late one night when he was hanging out with his friends and thought I was asleep (so sneaky, even then). I was twelve. My little lungs rejected the smoke instantly, felt raw after one shallow pull. Tasted strange—how I imagined old wet newspaper would taste. I stubbed it out after my second drag, which I held briefly in puffed out cheeks before blowing out hard with a quick “ha.”

I hold my cigarette memories in blocks—general pictures of the kinds of moments that spurred me to suck down for clarity and release. For example, I have a clear image of myself smoking many of the 3 AM, I’ve got a paper due in six hours Parliaments that made my college graduation a reality. The damn, that was one helluva burrito cigarettes are filed away neatly in my memory as well (hope to keep adding to that section). Some of my favorite cigarettes were smoked on a typical Friday night when I was sixteen. Cruising in my best friend Danielle’s black Jeep Cherokee after soccer practice, taking a backward glance every now and again to look lovingly at the forties (Steele Reserve for me) we had purchased at Juanita’s, the only spot we knew would sell to us even though we looked twelve. Blasting Sleater Kinney—I imagine “One More Hour” as the soundtrack to that year. If you’re unfamiliar with the song, to me it feels like total lack of inhibition. Deep screaming, belting angst. A pleasing translation of the of the mosh pit of white noise and anxiety in my head. You can’t help but rock out when you hear the emotional state of emergency in Corin Tucker’s voice, which she manages to sustain for the entire song. When it would finish, Danielle and I would pause and look up at each other, deciding with our eyes who would press scan back for one more listen, for the rest of the night. Pull hard on our cigarettes, roll the windows down further, drive fast through suburbia so the familiar looked unfamiliar in the blur.

We went back to my house because: my parents would be asleep when we got home, we could smoke cigs on the deck (and we smoked with abandon on those nights) and if my folks did wake up and find us, they wouldn’t really get mad. My brothers had broken them in over the years. Also, I was the neurotic over achiever. Who knows, maybe they thought I needed a drink.

One of my favorite early drinking memories—Mollie and I were having a sleepover at my house. She played on the soccer team too, was much better than me. No smoking cigs in front of her. But my parents had this liquor cabinet filled with all sorts of stomach-turning tonics for us to mix together. Mollie and I were gung-ho about all of this mixing. Who knows. We certainly were no slouches when it came to book smarts. Actually, Mollie was the valedictorian of our class and I was the salutatorian (co-salutatorian with what you might call my nemesis, or you might call my former best friend. You know how these things go with girls in high school working in a constant state of hormonal combustion). So the valedictorian and the salutatorian (well, we would be in two years) decided they would do an experiment and see how many shots they could drink. Just because. Shots are an interesting thing. No middle man. For some reason I think I was far more properly warned about not mixing different kinds of alcohol in college (I still did it, but was at least aware of the treacherous path I was taking). In high school, I mixed kinds of alcohol like I was concocting a witch’s brew in my belly, the more ingredients, the more potent its powers—scotch followed by gin, maybe an Asahi, a swig from the bottle of white wine my parents had left over from dinner, another shot of scotch…”Mollie I think I’m drunk.”

I think we topped it all off with a shot of cognac before sitting down in front of the soft porn reliably provided by HBO at 3 AM on a Friday. On screen, and this I remember clearly, two people were getting a massage at a resort and then, next thing you know, oops, the two masseuses and their customers have pushed the massage tables together and all four are having sex. Mollie and I looked up at each other, eyebrows raised, “Do you think this always happens when you get a massage?” and then a second later, “Probably. Yeah I guess so,” we agreed. Perhaps the seemingly indisputable revelation of professional massage always ending in sex was too much for Mollie. Perhaps she got some cork from the white wine. Or when she tripped over my dog it sent something out of balance. Mollie got sick. Again. And again. And again. I decided she wouldn’t give me shit if I smoked a cigarette then, so I did. The next morning we would both swear off drinking, which lasted for a few weekends I believe.

Nothing makes me want a cigarette more than drinking.