First cigarettes: Part 1

Elizabeth was never supposed to be born. Like all babies, she learned to cry first. Everything else came so quickly. She learned to smoke cigarettes when she was twelve. She stood outside against the brick wall of a church, tapping the toes of her white patent leather mary janes. Ricky was sitting on the swing opposite her and watching her pray. Elizabeth called God “the sweetness” and that made Ricky laugh inside. He had stolen the pack of cigarettes from a gas station along with two rolls of bubble tape. He handed her one.

            “I’m thinking the sweetness will put more freckles on me for this,” she said, folding a piece of gum into her mouth. “And I’ll be so spotted you won’t be able to see my cheeks anymore.”

            Ricky examined the dimples on her knees. “It’s cool,” he said. Ricky’s first cigarette had been two years earlier, in a basement with his father who was fighting dogs. The crowd was sweaty and shrieking like a collapsing balloon. His father saw him smoking and laughed. “The lord knows you deserve it just like the rest of us,” he said. Then he turned his son around and grabbed the cigarette from his hand, pressing it firmly into his left shoulder blade.

            They smoked four cigarettes in a row and it made Elizabeth have to run behind the perpendicular wall and vomit. “I’m fine!” she yelled to him, but he came anyway. When she picked her head up, he ran his thumb across her lips. “Sweet,” he said. She quickly walked past him and grabbed the matchbox from the woodchips, lighting another one.

            “I’m not sweet,” she said. 

            “Fine,” he said, grabbing the pack out of her hand. He walked away like a dog pulling hard on a leash. 

Sweet Dreams, My Nemesis

I took pictures of Hank while he was sleeping. Unlike me, smoke does not come out of his nose when he snores. Instead, his lips grow and shrink like an inflatable mattress. His plastic body crinkles when he breathes in and out. When he dreams of nice things, he blows kisses into the air. When he dreams of funny things, he snorts and giggles. When he dreams of bad things, he opens and closes his mouth and smashes his sharp teeth together while growling.

Every time I snapped a picture, little hearts came out of the end of my cigarette and I blushed.

Why I must burn Ginny

Ginny sent me a letter. In short, here are her complaints:

1. Ginny dreams about sex and she thinks its punishment. She dreams of having to masturbate in public. She dreams about questions like, "do you like this?" When she wakes up, she never wants breakfast. Not even McDonald's.

2. Ginny's job is a joke. She sells Proactiv Solution over the phone. People call her excited, saying they want new faces. She sells them the crap and then lies in her bed and rolls back and forth like a baby trying to crawl.

3. Ginny's puppy is getting too big for her to walk. He sometimes pulls her into the street. She looks both ways until her neck aches.

4. Ginny used to write poetry and submit it to online contests. She bought five poetry collections featuring her poems before realizing it was a scam. She keeps them in an old guitar case that has a Pink Floyd sticker on it.

5. Ginny hears the word "normal" echoing in her ear when she chews.

Real stomachs don't like celery

Dear Cigarette Burn Girl,

Yesterday, I passed a television store that was playing only Lady Gaga music videos. Where were you?

Love,

Halfred

Cigarette Burn Girl Returns!

After a long recovery from a gasoline accident, I have returned to find a world crankier than I could ever imagine! People are blaming their friends and neighbors for their bad days! I have received over 300 letters from people asking for my help, and I do promise to respond to them in due time. My nemesis, Hank, has been gathering power for three years now, and since I never responded to his dinner invitation, is now even more eager to defeat me. How will I ever be able to fix everything when I'm this sleepy?

Panick Attacks

When I feel like reaching out to someone but don't know who.

Cigarette Burn Girl is here.

Hello Stranger

Here's the thing about Hank. I would love to tear off his big plastic ear. I would love to steal his crayons. I stood outside his business meeting to see what type of pastry he likes best. He only drinks coffee. He drinks it with milk.

Lately I have been feeling lonely. Lately I have been wishing I had someone to light my cigarettes for me.

I was thinking about loneliness when a cloaked man with his face buried under a heavy black hat whispered "Hello Stranger". I saw the flash from his gold necklace and smelled his cologne. Then he said, "Get Well Soon." I don't know about these things that come out of nowhere. I usually tell myself they don't count.