The philosophy of killing yourself slowly

I'll get a coffee and a paper and have my own conversations. The mask I polish in the evening, by the morning looks like shit.

I am sat here in my room, a coffee-stained mug next to me. I am in one of those spinny secretary chairs and I have elevated it to unnecessary levels. I have grown a beard recently and I am starting to think I deserve a typewriter instead of this Dell in front of me. I'm a bit old school, like 1714 old school, not 'you just said LOL, that's like so old school. It's all about 'LULZ' now' old school. You'd think I was writing a dissertation on the Concave Optimization of Macroeconomics Theory, but no, I am sat here thinking about why I smoke.

Whilst growing up, a Miles Davis sorta character was the pinnacle of cool for me. Come on, it doesn't get cooler than some slick black shades in a dark jazz club, a fancy black coat, a shirt with the top button undone so to let a suitable amount of chest hair out and your gold chain. An empty whiskey shot glass next to you and finally; a cigarette on the tip of your right hand. Truth is, I could never down whiskey. Spirits are my vice. Class, as I discovered also, was not appreciated by the kids I grew up with. So my piggy bank which was saving up for my Ray Bans and the Italian shoes, was ultimately smashed as little me did his best to find a place in the social hierarchy. R.I.P.
Something stayed about the smoking though. You didn't go to no jazz club with 'friends', you went with a pack of twenty cigarettes tucked neatly in a smooth metal box. 'Cos with each puff you took, Mr. Marlboro himself would be telling you: ''Yup, you're the man.'' A girl in a red dress would come sit next to you, but you'd be stupid to say ''hi''. No. You'd offer her a light instead. And in that flicking of the cap of your black metal lighter, it'd be like bedding her, cooking her breakfast, then doing it again. Just within those few seconds. There would be no need for talking. You'd just listen to the jazz and look at the stage from the bar as far as the fog of smoke would allow you, and slowly, puff away. The solace...
Now Bam Margera...That is badass.

There was something dodgy about that coffee.

Yours Truly

Cunt