Coffee was out of the question, it went through her her like white hot contentment. Buying a pack of pre-rolled cigarettes seemed so mundane, so obvious. She imagined the act of rolling her own would be more authentic, more ritualistic, more appropriate for her current mood of self destruction.
She grimaced. The lighting was off. There were five lamps in the living room, an overhead fixtue, a turtle accent lamp she had purchased from Natural Wonders when she was 12, and a string of white Christmas lights around the fire place. Only the right combination would be appropriate for the current mood.
After twenty minutes of adjustments she nodded and murmured "...good lighting..." She opened the package of rolling papers and pulled out three. She opened the bag of tobacco and shook out a pile.
Chloe didn't like smoking, didn't want to smoke, she was enamored with the idea of smoking. Fascinated by incrementally drawing invisible pieces of death into herself speeding her towards a long, pathetic, caustic demise. And she wanted to stay awake.
She tore the papers and spilled tobacco bits. She licked too much and not enough. Her hands were covered with crumbly pungent bits of brown. She began to sweat. Her tongue darted out of her mouth and was clasped between her teeth. Her brow furrowed. She began to softly curse, then chuckle, then curse again.
"HA!" she yelled in triumph, planted the freshly rolled coffin nail between her lips, lit it with a kitchen match, inhaled. And fought down a cough.
In front of her, the typewriter was poised, loaded. She began to stroke the keys gently, then poke them, then punch them. A story began to develop, weaving ideas about the philosophical feminist and racial implications of the ostracizing of Amanda Bynes and Miley Cyrus drawing allusions to Joan of Arc.
The keys echoed into the night.
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