Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > All the Cigarettes
He wondered why it always seemed to take so fucking long for your suitcase to hit the carousel. It felt like he'd been standing there a lifetime as everyone else located and grabbed their bags and went on their merry ways.
He stood there in his beat up leather jacket and dirty jeans. He noticed his hands were shaking. A light sheen of sweat had broken out on his skin. He wasn't exactly sure when that happened but was well aware that his discomfort level had been slowly rising. It was bad enough he'd just spent hours on a flying fuel tank 30,000 feet above terra firma, but now he was stuck there waiting for that fucking suitcase.
He ran a hand through his greasy locks and watched a woman and small child try to work their way into the crowd without actually coming in contact with him to reach their bags. He wondered at the possibility that he might have just been staring off into space and actually missed his bag already. He tried to focus on the whirring noise the machine made as it monotonously continued to shuttle items on its silver conveyor system and not on his growing distress and his need for nicotine.
Finally his silent prayers to the gods of all cargo holds were answered and he saw his bag coming down the shoot. He made his way around the carousel while simultaneously reaching in his pocket and pulling out a smoke.
Bag in tow he hotfooted it to the nearest exit. His heart seemed to be thumping in overtime as all of the stress and anxiety of a days worth of air travel culminated in the need for a single, very-much-anticipated cigarette.
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In the darkness was a red-hot cherry that burned brighter with the sucking in of breath and smoldered in wait for the next. The acrid smoke filled his lungs. Toxic. Cancer-causing. And he knew it.
He sat against the mausoleum wall. The coolness of the concrete seeped through his jeans and gave his skin an unnatural chill. But he was still a warm body in the land of the dead. His mind began to wonder what it would be like to be a resident in this necropolis. He wondered if the worms and the maggots would end up with cancer once they got a taste of his lungs.
Staring out at the arrangement of stones he could imagine the solemn families and friends of those interred into the earth standing there all dressed in black. He bet the ground was salty here with the many tears that had fallen onto the upturned dirt.
The cherry burned brighter again - another breath, another lungful of death. He wondered how long he had - how long until he was dressed in his Sunday best and lowered into the ground. He stopped that thought and rewound the scene in his head, 'no, fuck that, I'm getting buried in a leather jacket.'
He wondered if the dead had a welcoming committee. Maybe they gave out fruit baskets with cards, "Welcome to the neighborhood!"
Maybe it was better being dead.
He stood there in his beat up leather jacket and dirty jeans. He noticed his hands were shaking. A light sheen of sweat had broken out on his skin. He wasn't exactly sure when that happened but was well aware that his discomfort level had been slowly rising. It was bad enough he'd just spent hours on a flying fuel tank 30,000 feet above terra firma, but now he was stuck there waiting for that fucking suitcase.
He ran a hand through his greasy locks and watched a woman and small child try to work their way into the crowd without actually coming in contact with him to reach their bags. He wondered at the possibility that he might have just been staring off into space and actually missed his bag already. He tried to focus on the whirring noise the machine made as it monotonously continued to shuttle items on its silver conveyor system and not on his growing distress and his need for nicotine.
Finally his silent prayers to the gods of all cargo holds were answered and he saw his bag coming down the shoot. He made his way around the carousel while simultaneously reaching in his pocket and pulling out a smoke.
Bag in tow he hotfooted it to the nearest exit. His heart seemed to be thumping in overtime as all of the stress and anxiety of a days worth of air travel culminated in the need for a single, very-much-anticipated cigarette.
########################################################################################
In the darkness was a red-hot cherry that burned brighter with the sucking in of breath and smoldered in wait for the next. The acrid smoke filled his lungs. Toxic. Cancer-causing. And he knew it.
He sat against the mausoleum wall. The coolness of the concrete seeped through his jeans and gave his skin an unnatural chill. But he was still a warm body in the land of the dead. His mind began to wonder what it would be like to be a resident in this necropolis. He wondered if the worms and the maggots would end up with cancer once they got a taste of his lungs.
Staring out at the arrangement of stones he could imagine the solemn families and friends of those interred into the earth standing there all dressed in black. He bet the ground was salty here with the many tears that had fallen onto the upturned dirt.
The cherry burned brighter again - another breath, another lungful of death. He wondered how long he had - how long until he was dressed in his Sunday best and lowered into the ground. He stopped that thought and rewound the scene in his head, 'no, fuck that, I'm getting buried in a leather jacket.'
He wondered if the dead had a welcoming committee. Maybe they gave out fruit baskets with cards, "Welcome to the neighborhood!"
Maybe it was better being dead.
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