Practicing My Purpose Once Again

I stand outside, smoking a cigarette. I’m sure I reek of paint and pot and sweat, and I lean back against the brick wall, exhausted, and blow smoke into the night air. One foot against the wall, I think to myself I must look pretty cool. Like a James Dean poster. Or a Marlboro ad. I hope my friend comes out and sees me. Standing here. Relaxing against the brick wall and smoking a cigarette. She should come outside and see me right now. Take a picture of me, standing here, as if I don’t notice she’s there, taking a picture of me. The kind of picture that would end up being on the jacket of my memoir and would make people want to buy my book simply because I look like the kind of badass bitch who could write a really awesome story. The kind of bitch who has lived a really awesome story.

Yeah, she should come outside and see how cool I am.