My room became the dump of all the things my parents wanted to do to our house, but had yet to accomplish. I moved the extra bed to the side so I could escape to the roof to smoke a simple and well needed cigarette. I climbed out the window like a prisoner in my own home.
As I sat upon my roof, I smoked my “cancer stick” while thinking about my life. I was thinking about all the boys I had ever dated and all the friendships that had already faded over the four months I had been in college. More importantly, I was terrified my parents would come out and catch me. I quietly sat Indian style as a cold shower came down on me. I stood up to soak in what little the rain had to offer.
As I was standing there, I started to wonder why such small things like smoking have such a negative connotation. It is my life. I am not harming anybody by smoking, if I was they wouldn’t hang out with me. So why does it matter? I should enjoy all the small pleasures life has to offer without fear. I should not live my life in panic of such mundane things. I should enjoy my habits without the opinion of others plaguing my head. This I believe.
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