…down to the filter.

Someone suggested I go smoke instead of writing since I was saying that I do not have anything to say. Unfortunately, I also don’t have anything to smoke. Nor do I want to smoke, which makes me sad for some reason. I used to love smoking, or at least the idea of smoking. Now I have succumbed to the social norm of thinking it is both gross and undesirable. Not to mention bad for the environment. I still don’t really stress that it is unhealthy, even though I recognize that to be a problem as well. I don’t really have an alternative vice–I suppose I could drink but it is too early for that. And I only want to drink whiskey and it is expensive. How does one stay interesting? Is it important to maintain bad habits? Are they good for the soul?

Tony, who is inherently biased, suggested that I “…try hookin’! I do it sometimes to make some extra moolah, you know, the Benjamins baby! Hookin’ gets you the ladies and the fellas. And you can make enough for a new set of teeth. I needs me a new set of teeth. Like Flava Flav. You know–strange love.”

Thanks, Tony, but I don’t think I’m wearing the right boots to hit the streets at this point. However, I will confess that you bring up an interesting point. One might consider the vice of self-disclosure, whether or not money is exchanged, as a force to be reckoned with. Is that why I like to write? And is this now my problem: have I simply run out of things to confess?

…the limp remains of ash, gray and dangling, are snuffed out in the tray.