I examine a cigarillo with a sniff and consume it with a whiff. The room begins to reek of Mary Jane.

I forget the cause of a recent tiff and consider mending the rift. Fighting over the trivial seems so inane.

Like a diamond in the rough, I mine my high with deeper puffs. I feel like gold when I lay back and relax.

I consider trying to play tough, but five hits is more than enough. I remember my shrink’s discouraging facts.

I’m able to abstain, but, then, I find the urge still remains. I consider alternatives for keeping my buzz.

I take a shot to maintain a feeling that’s hard to explain. The vodka is the sweet flavor of cotton candy fuzz.

One drink leads to another, and another leads to a few others. I approach my limit at a rapid pace.

Trying to sit up becomes a mother, as my cushion I awkwardly smother. I pass out lying flat on my face.