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  Becoming a true smoker.
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post #3
bio: rider

first post
that week

Previous Posts
What to do with old love letters?
Eleven things I used to believe.
Oh Elizabeth.
I borrowed your quasi boyfriend.

I still remember the day. About this time of year. I woke up with that breathless excitement that makes breakfast or even coffee seem alien and unthinkable. There was the requisite mini-van, packed late the night before with new bedding and crates and the most fabulous posters that I had painstakingly collected all summer.
The forever drive up.
Freshman registration.
Lugging said crates up stairs until my arms and fingers were all waffle patterned.
The roommate. Could be worse. Could be much cooler though. Beds bunked or un-bunked? Much debate.
And then the guilt infused but very real sensation that I would actually murder my parents if they did not immediately leave me to the four years of fun that I had been promised from birth and absolutely had to start that very instant. I would have plenty of time to miss them later. Go. go now. yes. I'll call. I promise. thank you thank you thank you I love you yes yes please leave. Precious college minutes are being frittered away while you make small talk with the O'Malleys from Bergen County. hugs. waves. and finally, gone.
My first officially independent decision: to go to orientation dinner with my healthy sporty soccer playing roommate and her athletic clones or to malinger on the dorm side curb with the smokers? I fished out my brand new pack, sat down and blew smoke in the backward gaze of new roommate disgust. Fuck orientation.

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