Can I bum a smoke?

I want people to like me, often to a desperate degree. That, and the fact that I am moody as hell and entirely unpredictable are major reasons why I'm the world famous sex goddess you know today.



But despite my craving for approval and adoration, I am all done giving out cigarettes. For reals, unless you bum them back to me, or habitually feed and water me (Isaac and Cathy, I'm looking in your direction), just forget about asking me for smokes from now on. I've had it.



The last straw broke at the BBQ this weekend, when at least three full-time, half-a-pack-a-day type smokers showed up with NO CIGARETTES AT ALL. How does that happen? Are you retarded? You smoke. You need to carry cigarettes. I don't want to be gross or anything, but this seems to me quite similar to running around completely unfettered with menstrual supplies during the most rambunctious days of one's flow. It can happen, sure, but it's just not something that should become a habit.



Worse yet, the BBQ came after several straight days of partying, at which I was, as usual, the only one with cigarettes, despite above, etc. No, no, this is worse, actually: Did you know that I don't smoke every day anymore? Well, I don't. If you only see me at parties, you wouldn't know this, but I go days and days without smoking. Which is why it pains me particularly to lose three-quarters of a pack of smokes to other people. I don't even get to have any, it seems.



My friend Sarah has a great method of dealing with habitual cigarette bummers. She asks them if they have a light. If they do, they get a smoke. If they don't, they don't need one all that badly, or else they'd be in the habit of carrying matches. I think this is brilliant.



I was less brilliant at the BBQ.



"Do you have a cigarette?" Someone asked.



"Yes," I said, smiling sweetly.



"Um, may I have one?"



"No," I said, still smiling.



"C'mon. You're kidding."



"Oh, no, I'm not kidding. Not at all. See, I only have three cigarettes left for the week, because everyone tore right through two packs of mine this weekend. So, while I have cigarettes, they're for me. They're mine. Mine, do you hear me, you goddamn hippie? Get a job, if you want some smokes. Buy them yourself. These are mine, and I know that they're mine, because I still have a handful of nickels leftover from the fucking ten dollar bill I gave the cashier at Lil Peach. These are mine. They have 'Jen Hubley' printed in big sparkly letters on the barrel of each smoke right above the little camel. These. Are. Mine."



"Jesus Christ. Okay. They're yours. Sorry."



"It's okay."



"Do you have your period, or something?"



"Yes. Actually ... do you have a tampon?"