I walked down to the starbucks that’s nearby, not the one at union but the one at astor. Not because the one at astor is any better than the one at union, but because astor seems to call to me this time, or perhaps I call to astor and I have no reason not to, so I go to astor. It’s an easy walk, there’s a light wind and I’m glad that I remembered to wear a jacket before I left. I realize astor is a few blocks away, far enough for me to take my first cigarette and listen to a song or two on my itouch. I stop, just at the corner of my street to light my cigarette, why can’t I light the damn thing while moving? The wind screws me over and I end up lighting half of the cig, so I rotate it and wait for it to fix itself before I take my first puff.

The cancerous smoke touches my lips and swirls in my mouth, leaving that delicious taste that only smokers find enjoyable. I don’t consider myself a smoker, at least I never have, but I’ve never disliked the taste of it. I remember how much I loved kissing a boy who had just had a cigarette, infecting my mint-fresh mouth with his tobacco-intoxicated. So with the first pull of fag smoke, I find myself reaching a certain level of ecstasy, if it can be called that. Then I remember why I was on this walk, and as the voice of Rachael Yamagata reaches my mind I feel that familiar feeling. That feeling that only someone who was truly sadistic could appreciate, and I am not truly sadistic in any way but there’s something about this feeling that puts me at peace, even though I’m in the greatest turmoil.

I take another puff of the cigarette and look on ahead of me, I can see astor now and it’s busy with people walking to and from. I continue to walk on, with my blank stare, trying to blur out the people so I can imagine as if I’m the only one walking the city tonight. It fails.

By time I’ve reached the starbucks at astor, I could’ve smoked another fag. I think it’s terrible that I can burn cigs so fast, I haven’t really found out how to enjoy them I suppose. I look inside, and there’s a large section of Asians from NYU and I feel myself start to panic. I look beyond them and feel a sense of relief with the view of several white Americans that I’ve become so fond of. I go through the side, not the main and walk. It’s starbucks, and anyone that’s been inside knows the general atmosphere. I try my best to put on some sort of smile as the female barista asks me what I’d like. A large pumpkin spice latte. Why’d I say large? I know the sizes at starbucks, tall grande venti. There is no reason to call it a large, but I do anyway and she nods away and gets me my drink.

I’m glad that this time, I am not paying for it but instead two girls are with a gift card they gave me for my birthday. Do you want a receipt? My initial response is no, but I say yes anyway and take my receipt and my drink. I walk out and resist pulling out another cigarette, instead I walk back and take sips from the cup. The sweet scent and taste of the pumpkin and cinnamon warms me, but it doesn’t break my frown just my craving for sugar.

I approach the dorm, I’m already halfway done with the latte and that bothers me. I’ve drank it too fast and so I try to take small sips and enjoy it more. The sight of people near the entrance makes me nauseous, if only because I want to be alone now. It doesn’t stop me from going to the stoop, the ledge, whatever you want to call it and lean against it by sitting on the ground. The resident bum bums a fag off me and I give him one without a problem, he’s been there since I’ve been there and he’s a nice guy. So why not? I take one out for myself as well and light it, slump down, place the cup beside me and smoke. I have “Quiet” by Rachael on loop, it’s my favorite from the Happenstance album and the line “I don’t expect anything,” gets to me. I take a long drag as she says the line, feeling a part of me want to cry. I can’t explain why, but it does and I can’t.

I don’t expect anything. Something inside me agrees, and sings as if the song belonged to me. I am not singing along, I am singing it. I say it over, on perfect timing as she does. The piano in the background soothing whatever frustration is in me. Why am I so frustrated? It doesn’t matter, it dissolves as the song comes to an end: I don’t expect anything. I know, as I say that, I’m lying to myself because I AM expecting something but I can’t explain what. What exactly, am I expecting? The song begins again, and I remain silent. I do not smoke or take a sip, I just sit there and wait.

I don’t expect anything. I don’t sing this time, I take a sip and then a drag and then I think.

I think about last night with Brandon, how I came home drunk and he was there because he wanted to see me. This was after I had explained to him how I was feeling, how I wasn’t sure if I wanted a relationship anymore, and it wasn’t even that but I was pretty certain that I didn’t want one. I told him what foster father and my mother said; how I wasn’t being fair and that I needed to break it off. What do I feel? I agree. I am not being fair and I should break it off, so why don’t I?

She says it again and I repeat, take a sip and then puff of the cigarette. My moment of isolation is interrupted by Andrea, and I do not mind because I haven’t seen her in a few days and it’s nice to see her. She stops by, and we talk. She shares with me, I share with her. Then she makes a reference to the boy I’ve been fancying, and I tell her the story with that. I also tell her his refusal to any attempt I’ve made to hang out with him, and better put, I admit to her my defeat. We talk again. It passes ten, and she says she needs to go. I wave away to her, turn my back to see my fancy and a part of me winces as I reach into my pocket and pull out another cigarette. I’m told not to, I don’t listen. I light it up and take a puff, waving goodbye. I go back to my seat.

The song has repeated about fifteen times now, and when I go back to listening to it for real I hear, “It’ll be just as quiet when I leave, as it was when I first got here.” Taking notice the lack of people around me, I find it to be ironic and take another drag. I can feel my body being disgusted with the inhale, not being used to more than one fag in a sitting. My body disagrees, my mind agrees- my mind wins. The thought of drinking instead of smoking comes about, but then I realize I have no liquor and I’m too lazy to fetch some right now so I continue smoking. The boy of my fancy walks in with his friend, I feel a strong sense of resentment as he does but take a long drag and it goes away.

I feel like shit now, and even that isn’t quite the best description. I feel like shit because my body is sore, so sore from working out that I can barely move my arms in a normal fashion. I feel like shit because there’s a portion of me that is greatly upset and the other part overwhelmingly depressed. I am so tired but the nicotine is waking me up, and so I’m in a conflict and I know eventually I’m going to be wide awake so I do not fight the energy but I fight the fatigue.

The realization that my friends have all made plans, without me, hits me and it’s now that I begin to spiral. I move onto the next cigarette, and take a longer drag than usual followed by a sip of pumpkin spice and then exhale the flavored smoke. People start to congregate around me and all I want to do is scream at the top of my lungs, I don’t because it’s already awkward enough that I’m sitting there, smoking looking miserable. I continue to smoke, I continue to smoke until I’ve gone through at least three or four more cigarettes, I lost count. I just see a line of cigarettes that I’ve put out as I move to the next and it doesn’t disgust me; it makes me grin. I look at my pack and realize that half of it is gone and that disgusts me. I’ve wasted a pack of cigarettes and now I’m angry at myself. I smash the fag in my hand, it’s not even finished but I’m so pissed that I do it and then stop, get up and throw out the rest of my latte and head to my dorm.

It’s in the elevator by myself that I feel the tears in my eyes and I start to cry for the few seconds that I am in the elevator. The moment the doors open to my floor I stumble out of the cube, feeling dizzy from all the cigarettes and I wipe my eyes and put on a normal face and go to my room, ignore my room mates and sit in my room and put on a song and start to write this.