cigars are gross.
i'm pretty sure that's real.
they're also pretty manly.
i had a secret stash of one specific rarity for years,
and i'd ignite their leafy sh!t-stinking stumps to celebrate stuff.
years have gone by, like, half a decade, even,
and i kept them stoved up in an extra-fancy humidor.
it's been a few years since i've had a good reason to fire one up.
i didn't have cause to celebrate a F*ing thing yesterday.
sometimes it's just time to let go of that death-grip on the past a little bit.
that's a thing.
check the teleport:
a diadema-shaped arapiraca-wrapped big black d!ck.
they're kind of the burliest ones.
a 58 ring gauge over 8 inches, and it gets fatter at the tip.
i mean it.
they're designed to kick your A* right off with epic masochistic masculinity.
or is it bi-curiosity that makes machismo mean puffing on that hot rod?
the former, i'm sure.
i had two left.
i muscled down one after the other,
over two days of dirty deeds, in a row,
and now they're both gone.
on a rainy sh!tty cold windy car ride to nowhere,
i toured the white mountains and the woodsly goodness,
and used up the last little bit of pointed punctuation from the old days.
that last cherry-red exclamation mark seemed sort of perfect.
so much smoke-
hours and hours of smoldering promises;
but no fire was rekindled along the entire impressive length,
during the considerable duration, at any point in the process.
so for no real reason, on an unimpressive day,
the final fumo de fete got used up and smoked away
in gouts of ghost circles and sequences of smoke rings,
and now they're all gone gone gone forever and ever.
every exhale sent the spent spirits right out of my head,
and into the world, to dissolve,
and maybe absolve,
but never solve a thing.
that's really real life, friends-
nobody leaves with the title.
very few people, places, and things get the sendoff they deserve.
occasionally special, without special occasions.
hard styles and bad breath;
black lungs, black hearts, and black moods;
fire spit and smoke exhaust;
the ash was washed away in the rain,
and the stubbed-out nubs have already disintegrated.
no trace, no evidence, no proof.
this messenger will self-destruct;
never quiet, never soft.....