Driving home for lunch I was behind a Jeep Wrangler with no doors on. I WANT A JEEP WRANGLER WITH NO DOORS ON!
I wish I could smoke a joint on my balcony at lunch, and then twenty minutes later not be high so that I could return to work. I would not want to be high at work.
Last night I went out onto my balcony and attempted to smoke a vanilla bidi. Sometime last summer, on the advice of my idiot cubemate (he is an idiot for far larger reasons, trust me), I decided to give bidis a shot. I eventually smoked or gave away like half of them, and the rest sat in my pantry for eight months. So last week I was at the cigarette store and bought a pack of bidis on a whim. Thought maybe the vanilla would be a nice flavor for spring. And I like how they look: they're big leaves, with a teeny tiny string wrapped around them. How natural looking! How salt of the earth!
Well, I remembered why I never finished that original pack. Who smokes these things? They're like smoking a punk. Not like Tami, but like the thing with which you light firecrackers that isn't to be inhaled. Seriously. They're not just not-tasty, they're . . . not smokable. I remember that they kept going out all the time. I didn't even give it a chance to do that last night; I took one drag, made a disgusted face at it (two kinds of disgusted: first the "ew, gross" kind, and then the "you've got to be kidding me" kind) and put it out. Then I lit a Djarum Black (which happens to be my legal smoke of choice NO GOTH JOKES PLEASE), took one drag, and said, "what the hell am I doing?" and put that one out too. And then enjoyed the wonderful Spring air in my lungs.