It's three days after I quit smoking. I love (well, loved) this beery Reed College hangout—it's relaxed, distracting, dark, smoky, and plays all my favorite albums from high school (Slanted and Enchanted tonight). But everyone here is smoking. I want to kick each of them squarely in the face and steal their beautiful little boxes of death and inhale until my lungs explode. Instead, I've been sitting on my hands for two hours, talking about sex. It's proving remarkably unhelpful. I've never craved a carrot stick in quite so loving a way.
Perfect Patron: I'd gnaw off my right arm for someone to walk in and give me one of those individual bags of carrot sticks. I'd buy you 40 drinks, sir.