What would Bukowski do?
I ran out of cigarettes.
OK, I didn’t. I ran out of the cigarettes I like to smoke. The good ones. My pack of trusty, yellow camels. The kind that when lit up and inhaled, leaves a dry burn in the back of my throat that tastes like addiction and history and writers who drink and smoke.
#stereotypes
Now, I’m sitting here at work, in my little sunspot, smoking a pack of shitty Chinese Zhongnanhai cigarettes that a co-worker was so generous to give. The shitty kind that foreigners in China smoke because most chinese cigarettes are “kao yan”or flue-cured tobacco, which leaves that nice, gritty burn in the back of your throat, that most can't stand because they're babies who smoke not for the actual flavor or history, and probably (most likely) because it's cheap af.
No, this packet of blended tobacco is shitty and light and leaves my throat aching with want and desperation for anything that can fill it, and it's not coffee, because it's 12:30 in the not-quite-morning-not-quite-afternoon, midday, and I'm already jumping around like an energizer bunny and SOMEONE GIVE ME CIGARETTES.
Maybe it's a sign from God. I did say I want to quit.
Goddammit.
