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Three Cigarettes: A Reason to Write
I used to have three cigarettes instead of lunch because it was cheaper. According to a friend of mine, that's a good reason to write a book.
His name is Ian and I know him through kickboxing. He works for an oil company but has the clearest skin, whitest teeth, and brightest eyes I've ever seen. He's very friendly and genuine, the sort of person that you'd want with you in any situation, except maybe a terrorist attack.
Seeing Ian after a couple drinks made me wonder how much personality is unwillingly shown on a person's face: are people visibly branded by their character? The poisons that stain the teeth, roughen the skin, and muddy the eyes; could they have similar effects on the person's brain?
This is important because, as I mentioned in the first line, I used to be what is probably best described as a fanatic smoker, and as you'll soon find out, I'm a bloody moron.
This chapter is called "Confessions for my Doctor" because it's about me neglecting my health. I'm sure at some point I'll show this to a doctor and he'll give me the same reaction as the one I get after most of these endeavors: confusion and despair.
My Beaten Hand: Escaping Secondary
I showed the receptionists at my secondary school a bruised and swollen hand, then told them that I needed to go to A&E. They wanted an explanation so I told them the truth, which was that I’d been punching the walls for amusement. I didn’t tell them that there was a small group of us laughing at the absurdity of my inflated purple hand smashing into the walls. I could be wrong, but I think that everyone has, at some point in their life, found something so hysterically funny that they acted stupid. I hope I'm right.
After they'd asked why, one of them asked what I’d expected to happen, which was a stupid question because I’d just proven what happens. I politely asked again if I could go to the emergency department which prompted a “hmmm”, as though she was pondering her next move in a game of chess. She responded with, “When did you do it?”, which in retrospect was a bit of a shot in the dark. Stupidly I told them the truth, “A couple days ago”, and they thought they were calling checkmate with “Well, you came to school just fine yesterday”.
I don't think good news ever starts with “Well...”. “Well…” at the start of a sentence means “I know you think this is a big deal, so give me a second while I think of some words that mean ‘I don’t care’ that won't make me sound like too much of a cunt”. Their cunt bar was low and I’m sure you know the type. People who use “Well…” in every other sentence because they think you’re a bitch. I swear those people are everywhere. Maybe that's just me.
To be continued...
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