Puffing on my third menthol of the night, he looks at me and says "you know, these apparently crystallize your lungs." He's got one between his lips too. But they'll only crystallize my lungs. So I look over to the nearly finished bottle of wine to my left, proud of my handiwork. But as I slip into drunkenness, I know I haven't taken my last puff of the night, so I try to keep my breathing a little shallower, but I end up inhaling even deeper, trying to feel those tiny organs harden.

I talked about myself all night.
Tuned out everyone else's worlds. I've stopped being able to listen. I've become self absorbed, in my cigarettes, in my drinking, in being nineteen and stupid. But the night was warm and heavy, even when the breeze whipped around my dark hair, momentarily obstructing my vision. I was surrounded by people who I perceived to love me. As for me, virtually all love I receive is unrequited.  So every work borne from me is about me, is part of me, is all me, because how could I possibly broaden my mental scope when I spend so much of my time alone falling in love with my own decaying reflection.
She really is beautiful though. Those huge, deep hazel eyes. The dark, dark hair juxtaposed to that pale skin. And the accenting dark circles under her eyes from running on four hours of sleep a night for thirty plus days. Self indulgence.

Self hatred.

Inhale deeper and feel my lungs dying.
Giggling at how I still talk like a thirteen year old child.
Laughing at my philosophy that if this teen angst continues into your twenties and beyond, you  just become Hemingway.
It's all very funny, really. I truly am a caricature of a real person. I am completely devoid of all authenticity and every ounce of me is contrived.

But this too shall pass.