The sad thing about the work I do is that it puts me face to face with middle-aged cigar smokers more than any other demographic. No, there is no need to detail the job exactly, suffice to say that it involves a quite considerable amount of psychological counselling, for which I was never trained, as most Marinites of that indelicate age tend to be self-obsessed and convinced of their entitlement.
They jangle as they walk.
Loose screws.
Younger Marinites are often sweetly fresh-faced and innocent.
Though with the seeds of utter batshittery within.
The curse of their time and place.
Pre-programming.
Almost nowhere else in the world are people so utterly and overwhelmingly white of mind.
Marijuana is good, gluten is bad, and preventive medicine is an ideological minefield. Poor little fevered weenies.
Special is the new orange.
Nice young women, as is well-known, seldom indulge in cigars. It is too expensive an indulgence for someone just setting out on her career and contemplating eventual marriage to a masculine Marinite of suitable background and unsurprising tastes.
Personally, I have always been tickled by the fantasy of a young woman of post-college age indulging in a pipe, and developing an educated palate for Latakia blends. Imagine the echo-waft of resinous perfume whenever she is near, the slightest hint of wickedness!
Cigars are not suitable for bright young women; fine briars are.
Pipe-smoking is a restrained and cultivated habit.
Cigars are as easy as crack-cocaine.
No brains required.
Of course, the less said about cigarettes and vape-devices, the better. Those are mere addictions, and there are sleazoid venues all over where those can be found and gangs of wastrels loiter.
A presentable woman will not venture in.
Sinning should be a splendid secret pleasure, never a public vice.
I always feel mighty spiritual when I'm smoking.
Everyone can, it's really not hard.
I have Latakia blends.
And matches.
Heh.
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