Fuckfaces & Nicotine
In the morning when I drive to work, I turn up the stereo as loud as it will go. I want one full angry song before my day begins. I want one full cigarette so I can re-learn how to breathe. It is the only time of day I do not wonder who watches me. Who thinks about me. Who doesn’t watch me. Who doesn’t think about me.
I do just fine until 10am. That’s when my need for nicotine kicks in. My break starts two and a half hours later than that. So I do busy things. I clean the supply cabinet. I organize shelves. I do paperwork. I deflect clients. I doodle pictures of fuckfaces on scrap paper. I design my next tattoo.
The emergence of real-life thoughts rises in proportion to my addiction ache. My addiction ache rises in proportion to the emergence of real-life thoughts.
This fuckface says nice things but doesn’t mean them. That fuckface thinks nice things but doesn’t say them. This one stalks me everywhere I go. That one, I can’t find half the time.
When I finally get my break, I intentionally ignore my phone. So I don’t know who I need to avoid. So I don’t know who avoids me.
This is why I smoke.
I have replaced the fuckfaces in my life with nicotine.
This fuckface would find it funny I can’t find that fuckface. That fuckface doesn‘t ask about the other fuckface.
I look at my phone to make sure it’s on silent.
I wonder why I bring it with me.
I wonder why I own it.
Sometimes while it’s in my hand, my daughter calls to say we need milk. Sometimes when it’s in my hand, my son calls to say he’s sorry he drank all the milk.
Sometimes when it’s in my hand, my sister texts to see how I’m holding up. She knows I don’t handle absence well. She knows how I feel about abstinence.
It is then I remember why I own a phone. Not everyone is a fuckface. Not everyone is a life-sucking addiction. Not everyone is bad for me.
Sometimes this fuckface calls or texts. To see how I’m holding up. To tell me I’m an angel. To tell me I’m a cunt. To tell me I’m a cunt angel. To ask if I want to fuck.
Sometimes that fuckface calls to see how I’m holding up. To tell me to be strong. To tell me I’m better than this. To tell me he’s sorry he isn’t around. To string me along.
Sometimes when my phone is in my hand, nothing happens.
So I smoke. And I turn up the tunes.
I yell fuck you to the sky so the biggest fuckface of all knows I’m aware of the shit he’s trying to pull.
See also by Gretyl: the sixes