Dammit, I miss smoking. I miss having that comforting pack of smokes in my shirt pocket. I miss carrying a Zippo, the Man’s way to light a smoke. And by the way, fill that bastard with leaded gas, you sonofabitch, don’t go putting any unleaded bullshit in it. I miss standing in the wind, lit smoke hanging out of the corner of my mouth, raking leaves. Hell, I even miss being out of breath. I miss having the reek of tobacco on my clothes, the fumes in my car. I miss sitting back at the end of a meal, putting my feet on the table, and lighting up. I miss flipping my butts into a fireplace. I miss the way I felt first thing in the morning, lighting that first smoke, sucking it back while I waited for the energy to put feet to floor. I miss rolling my own- the ritual of opening the pouch, folding up the edge of the paper, sprinkling in just the right amount of Drum, rolling up the paper and sealing it, and lighting up. I miss keeping those roaches on the fireplace mantel and putting them in a pipe at the end of the day, remembering each moment of the day as I smoked that last smoke.

I don’t miss the 4 bucks plus a pack,twenty times a week, and as I’m a cheap bastard, I’ll deal with it. But, still.