Confessions, musings, and sordid details of a Generation Y redhead.

the rain falls, making soft, comforting noises on the asphalt upon impact. my mind races for a moment and just as suddenly comes to a deafening halt. i take another drag of my cigarette--a camel filter, though i normally smoke american spirits. corey said they were out of mine, but i don't begrudge him the difference. at least they're not the sillly soft packs he always manages to buy a thus-disgruntled nattie. i know that when i'm 27 or 37 or 87, i'll look back and think, "honey, you didn't know what old was," but in this moment, i feel old and unaccomplished. i'm seventeen for cripe's sake. my mind then sets about proving me wrong, catalogging achievements. the smoke burns a little more in my throat as the ashes creep ever closer ot the fiberglass filter. pacing should make me warmer, but with every step, the cold sinks a little deeper into my bones. another night-wanderer rounds the corner, avoids eye-contact--the unspoken rule of night-wandering. i long to break the rule, but the primal instinct is ingrained too strongly in the muscles controlling my eyes. as he passes back into the night, i glance down at the cigarette between my fingers. a few more precious drags, and i'll taste filter. i decide against those drags and toss the butt into the gutter. the cherry sighs, a cool sizzle in the rainwater. i sigh in answer, resigned and return to the store. melancholy--not sadness, but decidedly somber sobriety--sets in. nick sees my despondence and gives me a quizzical look. i smile, forcedly, to disspell his concern; it doesn't work. we'll have words later, but right now, it's just not the time for many words.