(a story from a while back)
Last night I went to a show. The bass player just oozes "Euro" and I'm weak in the knees. He's really not that attractive, but he is euro so who cares? He's jazzing about in this smoke-free Columbus establishment. And here he suddenly appears with a cigarette dangling from his lips. Yes, he is for sure euro now, with his disregard for rules and overly indulgent habit of smoking. And here I am in the middle of the floor, front and center watching this guy. But instead I'm watching you roll your own cigarettes. And now I can smell what I hate so much, and I'm yearning it. How you make small cigarettes, "not strong like company made." Just a little pinch of English tobacco in your short, thin Rizla papers. You even use filters. What the hell for??? And my mind works like ping pong: everything I think returns to me with you. And bassman is still prancing about with his dangling cigarette, granny ash and all. Except now it's euro ash from the euro man who is so cool he doesn't care about rules or health. He doesn't even care that he's in the middle of a performance. Instead, he keeps looking suave, poofing away. How did I get to be so googly eyed and enraptured with all this silliness?
I know exactly your perfume when I arrive in two months.