I wake up in a still half-drunken haze and I look around room, gathering my thoughts and trying to remember what day it is and why I was so hungover.
“Oh right.” I thought to myself “The strike.”
I clumsily roll over and look at my desk, and there lays a beast I had not encountered in a long time. A crisp 20 pack of Canadian Classics.
I grab a single cigarette and put it in my mouth, as I lay back down in bed I grab a lighter off my nightstand and light up. As I see the smoke rising towards the ceiling I pray that maybe a cinder will fall from the cigarette and ignite the mattress, engulfing me in a fiery hell and putting me out of my misery. At least then I wouldn’t have to deal with any of this strike bullshit.
As I lay there I begin to think. When will I see family again? Am I going to get any sort of compensation for this shit? Am I gonna graduate on time?
“You were never gonna graduate on time.” I mumble to myself and take a drag. Then I feel it, a sort of numbness you can’t get from anything else, and I start to feel better about everything else. “This was a great idea.” I think to myself. Why should I be worried about the strike when instead I can smoke cigarettes, slowly shortening my life and increasing my already-present inability to run a marathon.
Halfway through the day and halfway through the pack I sit on the bench in Clock Park hacking a dart while looking at the paper-bagged bottle of whisky that sits in my hand. Now lacking the only two hobbies I had as a student (going to class and studying) the only thing left to do is drink liquor and smoke cigarettes.
I feel my phone vibrate and look to see who it is. As my phone lights up I see it’s a text message from my fellow student (and friend) Blake. “You need to stop,” the text reads “Coleman this isn’t good for you.” I text Blake back, telling him I can’t handle the stress “I don’t care if it’s going to significantly hurt my ability to scuba dive,” I tell him “it’s better than dealing with all the stress from this goddamn strike!”. “Coleman, you have to stop, you’re killing yourself” he texts me back. I look up from my phone and take a long hard look at the campus that I’m supposed to call home.
“No,” I said to myself, taking another drag. “They’re killing me.”
(This article is very obviously satire)
