I hope no one saw me pick up that cigarette.  If they did, what would they think? They would know it wasn’t mine; I’m sure of it, they would know.  They would know because its not even my brand.  Who smokes Pall Malls since Jerry Garcia died?  Nobody, that’s who.  Now everyone knows how desperate I am, but it won’t stop with knowing.  Now that they know, they will use it against me; they think I’ll do anything for half of a flatten cigarette.  I never catch a break, can’t even bum a smoke.  If I can’t bum a smoke how am I going to survive an interview? Just another statistic—another deli order whose number just got called.  Smoking old cigarettes, professional fumbling idiot, looks like I’ll just be another has been, or never was; what I am now is a give up while you still can.  All because of this fucking cigarette I’m an unhealthy slacker who can’t fulfill a day without caving to a vice.  I know what they all think, it’s written all over their faces like books.  But I can’t let them see me sweat, or bleed, or cry or smoke this second hand cigarette.  I couldn’t handle the judgment, the mercilessly piercing judgment that they conjure up today.  All because I wanted a smoke, what has this world come to?  Generation Y, that’s what.  This whole world buzzes now instead of hums the way it used to.  There used to be a steady, unwavering hum—the pitch of healthy production.  Now its just a flat buzz that fills the air where radio waves, televisions, radios, internet, Bluetooth converge; its numbing and confusing to a person like me.  But it seemed like a nice break of silence when I bent over to pick up that cigarette, well paced and inconvenient.  Now that I’m the laughing stock and the social mudsill that you walk on to establish your self-confidence I know it wouldn’t hurt if I actually smoked this square.  I took the matchbook out of my pocket, luck I had one left so I could finally give all these people a show.  The deep breaths and nicotine made my new identity easier to swallow, it felt good to be defined.  Perhaps I could make friends as the person I have become, live out my days known for something, assume a different culture and rewrite my future.  I digress, I don’t think I’m capable of being that much in control knowing I can’t suppress an impulse.  I admit it was a foolish thing to do picking up that cigarette, but I don’t regret smoking it—I took the last drag long enough to burn it right down to the stained, smashed filter.  I can’t say it was my proudest moment, but every one knows now.  You have to try, you really do.