Chain Smoking

I like to imagine my site as a hideaway spot for underage tobacco users. A rowdy crowd of middle-school wannabe dropouts sucking back Parliament Lites that cost them all of their allowances and then some. I like to imagine that because that makes some sense of the stuck red bubble gum piece that has been eroding on one trunk of my four-trunk behemoth. That puts sense to that little knot at the base of my behemoth that has hidden inside broken mechanical pencil bits and a worn scrap of a note that simply says, "Sara has a nice--." These nasty, odorous grease-balls probably have imaginary sword fights when the girls have all gone home because splinters of stripped tree limbs litter my site after most weekends. I must look odd to them; they spying from behind that green maintenance shack while cutting class. I, lanky in limbs and haggard in countenance, can barely fit in that little nook two of the four-trunks create. I must seem completely alien, stepping none to softly in my red canvas All Stars measuring creek depth and picking at leaves as though I know not what they are. I can set my jaw tight and make it appear as though I know anything but if only they could meet my wild roving eyes and see that I am just as clueless as they are. I envy them. They puff puff pass that smoke and cough through the fog and they truly do not know that it is harmful. Repercussions are when your buddy makes a mistake on the drum set during band practice and it sounds really cool but he cannot for the life of him imitate it ever again. That is when you call your band SPONTANEOUS COMBUSTION. Things are funnier then, like low-brow humor. Especially low-brow humor.