2004-03-26

I'm smoking cigars and feeling satisfied, painting a reality that doesn't involve feeling anything in particular except when notable exceptions make their dramatic appearance in the doorway of a hotel room...

I'm smoking cigars and imagining myself the 1920's black haired heroine of a dramatic vampire plot that involves a lot of crumpled sheets and allusions to neck biting...

I'm smoking cigars and pretending that the Rolls I'm leaning against is just one of my fleet of luxury vehicles, a snippet from the Lindsay Fox-esque collection of motoring memorabilia that clutters some airport hangar in a dusty paddock...

I'm smoking cigars and purring like a cat at the warm smell that envelopes me, a cigar fug, a smell that speaks of mediterranean yacht cruises, leather Chesterfields, blue striped shirts from wood panelled gentleman's boutiques and the swaying backsides of easy-lay girls with shiny brown hair...

I'm smoking cigars and being the art critical lesbian, woman of the moment, seen at all the openings and most notably all the openings of legs of the bi-curious gals from the good suburbs in the east...

I'm smoking cigars and not worrying about the campaigning PC hordes who claim their right to breathe smoke-free is more important than my right to inhale large amounts of tobacco fog, and really is it possible for one person to have more 'rights' than another? in this civilized world...

I'm smoking cigars and loving having the very last little leaf leave a burn on my lip to remind me that love is pain and yet a pain that we choose so we'd better not kid ourselves about why we do anything...

I'm smoking cigars and looking for somewhere to stub my latest conquest out in.

bitch - moan