It had been a long summer. I had spent 3 months interning for a company I hated, I had just been dumped by a guy I met on Tinder, and Julia (my sister/bff) and I had been paying $2600 a month to live in a dorm room the size of a closet. On top of all that, New York City in August is as close to hell as you can get. After coming home from yet another tedious day of staring at a computer screen, Julia looked at me and at the exact same moment we practically shouted, “Let’s go get sushi and smoke cigs!!” As we crossed Houston and headed into the East Village, cigarettes poised between our fingers, people actively turned their heads to stare at us, their faces distorted with disgust. “Is my outfit weird or something?” I asked Julia. We quickly realized it wasn’t my denim mini receiving the death glares though—it was our cigarettes.
Meanwhile, across the pond at fashion school, the smoking issue (or rather, lack thereof) is a completely different story. Between classes everyone gathers together, gossiping and laughing, all while enjoying their cigarettes. I’m not artsy in the slightest, so I quickly realized that in order to look like I belonged I must smoke.