I consider myself an “occasional” smoker. By that I mean, on my worst streaks, I smoke two cigarettes a day, every day. The preferred cigarettes are Marlboro Reds, the cowboy-killers. I love the taste of them, the acrid fumes. There’s just something so delightfully sinful about them. As my comrade Oscar Wilde once said, “A cigarette is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure. It is exquisite, and it leaves one unsatisfied. What more could one want?”. That, and they’re fucking delicious.
A colleague of mine and I went to a local hookah bar. It was my first time, even though I have traveled extensively through the exquisite land of India. In that land, I heard tell of shisha which could knock even the strongest on his ass.
It was magnificent. The owner was a friend of my friend, and he offered us a new blend, “Panther Sex”. (Another thing that I have found is that even the blends with disgusting names, like Zombie Semen, are delectable.) I am now one of the few people I know who can say he enjoys coitus of the feline persuasion.
Then we went there a second time. We sat in the corner, observing our fellows with a wary eye, miming phallic jokes with the hose. My friend winked awkwardly at a beautiful woman sitting opposite of us. Then, tragedy struck. My leg was coiled in the hose, and my friend shoved me, and the hookah tipped unfortunately. The bowl fell to the floor and shattered. Red sparks flashed in the air, and an ember caught itself between her foot and the flap of her shoe. I suggested to my friend that she should have then, using the sympathy points, asked for the girl’a number. She just looked at me balefully. The owner, thankfully, didn’t make us pay the $100 for the bowl, and I helped my friend limp home.
I have finished the last cigarette of the pack, and I find myself, ultimately, disappointed. Nothing now compares to the inhale of that cool, sweet mist.
Until another time, I bid thee, farewell.