The Brain is a Noodle
Smoking
Why is killing myself a comfort zone?
Tomorrow I will wake up and have water before coffee, meditation before curses, God before self-loathing.
Tomorrow I will waft sage around my brain and love my body, its aging curves and plump where I never had plump before.
Tomorrow I will not have disdain for people who watch TV all day long or drink too much alcohol or eat late into the night. Who the fuck am I to judge? I have slowly been killing myself for thirty-five years on cigarettes.
Tonight, as always, I will practice these mantras before sleep. I will breathe deep and cast a blue light over myself. I will think of my dad, who through no fault of his own died at the age where I now stand.
I will think of all the transgressions against my body, and how it has been this amazing vessel of strength against adversity, and how I must show it my fervent gratitude.
I have a friend who was recently diagnosed with a serious and rare form of blood cancer. I watch my mom hobble on a walker after fifty years of alcohol abuse. My older sister, dearest Jean, who treats her body with love and affection, is stricken in pain from rheumatoid arthritis. My younger sister, Kathy, survived ovarian cancer.
