(under reconstruction): drug potion no. 9

For the last few weeks, I've felt the uninhibited urge to do something wild, crazy, something entirely out-of-character. I'd been dying for some new dye under my skin, but couldn't decide on a design. I wanted a haircut, but was wary of the length, not to mention the cost of a good crop. I'm not badass enough to pierce anything besides my ears, and any other body modification was essentially out of the question. So how's a good girl to satisfy her reckless cravings?

The answer can be found in a simple count: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8...9 camel no. 9's.

This weekend, I left my athlete lungs to succumb to the beauty of the pink box, the rarity of the American-breed, the long, narrow sick-on-a-stick between my pointer and middle finger. I said 'when in Rome' (which, in this weekend's case, was actually New York City―and there will be more on that later), and made a pact with myself to polish the pretty pack before Tuesday dawned. Saturday night came, and I socially smoked my way through my share of a 26 of Seagram's, a couple of Mexican beers, and some classy champagne. My buzz wasn't killed thanks to the booze, but I can't say I craved the 'tine. I smoked once the next day and struggled through half a butt or two. Nine cigarettes in a weekend―not bad for a rookie, but for once, I feel accomplished for not meeting my personal goals (mom would be proud).

My preferred summer treat on a stick? Popsicles. There is no substitute. Smoking still sucks (no pun intended), even if all the pretty people stick to it.