Why I’m Not Giving Up Anything for New Years or Lent or Whatever.

I’m driving uphill this morning when I run out of gas.

It happens quickly. My car rolls back. It doesn’t surprise me at all.

I have no idea how long the light’s been on.

It’s been weeks. I put money in. Sometimes enough to shut it off all day. I’ll be back soon, though. Could save myself a trip tomorrow if I just fill up all the way right now. Just can’t admit that I’m putting that much into the tank. Sometimes I let it get so empty the light stays on even after I’ve fed it. This only makes me think that empty means kind of full. My car is crying wolf. I can make it go for days when it says it can’t.

Usually.

There are days when that light is not fucking around. Today is one. It isn’t my first. It certainly isn’t my best. I’ve run out of gas in a snowstorm, on the 405, and when I first got my license (which is only notable because it led to a chain of events that culminated in me riding a bike to the E.R. to have gasoline pumped out of my stomach, but that’s a horse of a different color.)

The point is, it’s happened enough that when my car starts rolling backwards, down a steep hill, because of my negligence, on this, the second day of the new year, I’m not phased.

I call Triple A.

A guy comes.

I give him my last nine dollars.

It doesn’t make the light turn off.

I would be mad if I knew what to be mad at. The problem is the no gas, which is the problem with no money, which is the problem with being in love with instability, which is the solution to being in love with lots of things, and who can be mad at that?

So I pay the guy, and I’m running on fumes, which makes me anxious in its familiar, constant muted way.

You have to get your shit together.

That’s what people do.

You have to start being able to fill up all the time.

You have friends who fill their gas tanks and raise kids.

You should never have kids.

You should already own a home.

I realize that I need tampons, and I stop at CVS on the way home. They’re only four dollars, and that’s less than the low balance email from BofA said. It should be fine.

It’s not.

Your card’s not working.

The clerk takes my visa. She puts it in a plastic baggy, and runs it through the machine again. And again. Even she doesn’t want to believe that I can’t afford one goddamn box of tampons.

Try running it as debit.

Fuck me.

Let me see it again.

Like the card’s the issue.

I really do need those tampons.

Come on.

I have another check coming soon. Why isn’t it here yet?

Why do I cut everything so close?

I can’t just not have tampons when I need them.

I will though, because I murmur something about calling my bank, and slink out. At least I’m on the kind of empty that will get my car home.

I search old purses. Luggage. The rest of my life, I have tampons stashed everywhere, like eggs on Easter morning. Right now, there are none to be found.

What am I going to do?

How did this happen?

I have a college degree.

Everyone else is hiking and starving their vices.

I’m quitting pot.

This is all happening because pot makes me stay in bed too late.

Made me.

I’m done now. I’m quitting, and everything will be better tomorrow.

I remember a Target giftcard from my Christmas stocking and drive with the gas light on to La Brea.

(I’m inventive. That’s how I can go so long on vapors.)

And now the tampon light is out, and that will be fine for now, and that check is coming, and I’m quitting pot. And drinking. And sex. And T.V. And everything will be better tomorrow.

I go to an open mic with friends because thank god there’s that. I brag about quitting pot and drinking. I brag about a lot of stuff before I deserve to. I’m quitting that too.

I’m glad I came.

Until a ketchup explodes all over me. From behind.

It’s not the guy’s fault. He’s just having a burger, and there’s too much ketchup or air or excitement squeezed into that bottle, and so it explodes all over me and the new jacket I got for Christmas and I know it’s not his fault, but he could at least say he’s sorry. Someone should be.

Why can’t I have one nice thing?!

So my friends drop me back off at home, where the dishes aren’t done, and the laundry isn’t put away.

Alone now, I breathe, and the air works its way through the little knots in my chest. Like a car going the wrong way over tiger teeth.

Then I pack a bowl and pour a whiskey, and yes, I feel bad about it.

I shouldn’t have told people I was quitting, and I bet I’d feel great if I actually stuck to it, so I eat five cookies while I smoke my bowl and I drink my whiskey.

Everyone is quitting things and ‘changing’ their lives, but that’s not really my problem. Everyone is not having a run- out- of- gas- use- Target- giftcard- for -tampons -have -ketchup –explode- on- your- new –jacket- day.

Leave me alone.

My vices are my old friends, my bubble bath, and I’m delighted to have them on nights like this.

I don’t look back on the years of my life in terms of the actual day they started.

I don’t look back on the years of my life at all.

Everything either happened a few months ago, a couple years ago, or when I was eight.

Bad habits and good times drop in and out like fickle lovers.

They don’t follow the calendar year, and they’re too loyal to leave me just when I need them. They know I won’t want to say goodbye, so they slip away quietly, and one day, I’ll turn around and notice one of my old favorite mistakes is missing.

Maybe my strongest weaknesses will eventually fade away. Maybe I’ll naturally outgrow them, and someday I’ll look back on this as a phase I was going through a couple years ago. I’ll never look back on this as 2012, the year I got my life together, though, because my memory is a messy shoebox of pictures, and not a linear day planner, and I highly doubt that anyone in human history has ever truly gotten their life together on January 1^st or any day, for that matter.

So, I’m fine bathing in my indulgences tonight.

I mean, Jesus. There are only so many times you can run out of gas in one day.

Fuck Rape, Dude.

I’m self- involved.

That is the primary reason for me clicking on or flipping to any article I see that deals with women in comedy. It’s a subject that interests me not only for the obvious reason that I am one. I also feel a certain level of pride and gratitude for that fact that I am doing comedy at this particular moment in history, which has afforded me the luxury of having so many hilarious girls as peers and predecessors.

I was excited when I saw a posting recently of an article in the New York Times entitled, ‘Female Comedians, Breaking the Taste Taboo Ceiling.’

Honestly, I don’t generally view any comic that I respect as being a ‘female comedian.’ If you’re funny, you’re funny. You’re just a comedian. I hoped that the ‘ceiling’ in this article would be in reference to what I see as an increasingly small distinction between male and female comics, and mainstream America’s growing tendency to view funny girls as a norm, and not a mind blowing exception to the rule.

Then, I read the thing.

To synopsize the article, it casually posits that ‘Girls have gotten funnier over the last ten years, because now they can talk about rape.’

(It’s here if you’d like to check it out.)

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/11/16/arts/television/female-comedians-are-confidently-breaking-taste-taboos.html?_r=2&hpw&pagewanted=all

Call me an asshole, but I find this notion offensive, ignorant, and patronizing. This is also how I feel about rape jokes.

With very little exception, the premise of a rape joke is ‘Rape is the same as sex.’ I think it’s possible to write a ‘rape joke’ that is actually a comment on society’s views on rape in general, but I’ve rarely, if ever, heard such a joke. Sarah Silverman’s famous ‘I was raped by a doctor, which is very bittersweet for a Jewish girl,’ joke is a very smart one liner. It’s well constructed, and it made me laugh the first time I heard it. It’s still equating rape with sex. This is problematic to me for a number of reasons.

The first, and most obvious is that rape is only one thing: an act of violence. It is demoralizing and dehumanizing, and leaves victims feeling powerless. It is an assault on one’s sense of self and autonomy over their own being. When anyone, comedian or otherwise, holds the position that a rape victim was having sex, they imply consent, and thusly blame for the fact that they were assaulted. I have a hard time viewing this stance as anything other than cruel.

I am the last person to suggest that anyone censor themselves in their comedy. In order for comedians to write and continue to find themselves, the stage has to be a place where taboos don’t apply, and where the social filters of day to day life do not exist. That said, I think it’s wise, if not morally responsible, to think about what you are actually saying with a joke, and to decide if that is a thought that you want to broadcast in to crowds of strangers. Needless to say, there is no way to determine this without crossing your own line, and I’m sure even the best comics have jokes that may run counter to their actual beliefs.

I am not angry when I hear someone tell a joke about rape, or race, or the holocaust, that is, at it’s core, racist or misogynistic. I just think that it’s a rookie error. When you first start doing comedy, one of the most attractive things about it is the freedom you feel from social morays you’ve felt for most of your life, and those are our most easily accessible, surface level taboos. Perhaps this is why the highest concentration of rape and Hitler jokes is at open mics. I’m not saying I’m better than that. I definitely had a handful of rape jokes my first couple years.

As I continued to do comedy though, I started to feel like those jokes were working for the wrong reasons. Particularly outside of major cities, it is challenging for a girl comic to garner the attention and respect of an audience. There is still a relatively pervasive notion that girls are not funny. On top of that, you are asking a room full of men and women to shut up for a second, and let you be in charge. Not every group of people in this country is quite ready to do that. Sometimes you have to have to pull a trick out of your sleeve to get them to let you hold court. Unfortunately, one of those tricks is a rape joke. It’s saying, “It’s cool guys. I don’t like girls either.”

I do not think it’s brave to tell a rape joke. I do not think it’s edgy or smart or interesting. I think throwing a group of victimized people under the bus so that you don’t eat shit on stage is a sign of cowardice.

What I do think is brave is allowing yourself to be publically vulnerable, to speak frankly about the yourself and your point of view, regardless of whether you offend people and embarrass yourself. I lot of the comics I love take an ‘offensive’ or morally questionable stance on things, because that is actually how they feel. There is a huge difference between doing that, and adopting false mean spirited stance just for shock value.

The people who are, in my mind, masters of the craft, all know themselves and their voices so well, that when they are on stage, they are offering a view of who they really are, beneath the layers of being polite and agreeable, that we all exist under. This honesty can take so many forms: anecdotes, joke- jokes, absurdity. Dirty, clean, somewhere in the middle. Everyone’s instrument is different, but a great comedian tells an audience things they would never tell their spouse.

There are so many women who do this. By lauding the great proliferation of rape jokes over the past ten years, that Times article is relegating women to that very early phase of depending on mean spirited and false jokes. I completely agree that chicks in comedy are kicking ass and taking names. We are well past that rudimentary phase. I wish they had talked about how well Jackie Kashian or Tig Notaro can tell a story, or how fascinating it is to watch Maria Bamford explore her demons via a series of cartoon-esque voices.

Whatever. At least Bridesmaids did well this year.

My Left Ear

Just because someone wears glasses doesn’t mean they’re smart.

Or sophisticated.

Or the owner of an impressive vinyl collection.

They just have bad vision.

Blah, blah. Glasses add character. They’re a fashion statement. And I think we can all [1] agree that Dr. Drew is sexy as hell.

I get it.

None of this changes the fact that for too long, we’ve placed the half blind in an elite class, obtainable by the lowly full visioned only upon purchase of faux specs from Claire’s Boutique, or some other godforsaken corner of the mall.

It’s not fair. Not to those whose face organs work just fine, and certainly not to the rest of the world’s half-handicaps, those of us who’ve lived in shadow for too long.

Yeah. I’m talking about the half-deafs.

If you don’t know any of us, or haven’t figured out how to get on our ‘good side,’ I suggest you remedy that immediately. We’re also very interesting, and have lots of valuable qualities. (We just don’t wear it all over our faces like some people.)

As children, half-deafs are the perfect people to befriend. Want to talk to us during class? Go ahead! You won’t get in trouble! Just whisper whatever you’d like into our deaf side, watch us turn in our seat, to ask you ‘What?’ and then enjoy recess as we get our name on the board (again) for talking.

Half-deafs are great listeners at any age. Stand on the right[2] side of us, and you have our undivided attention. Think we’re going to abandon you for a more interesting conversation? We can’t. We don’t even know they’re going on!

If you do happen to be on the quiet side of a half deaf, there are benefits for you as well! Have social anxiety or general insecurity? Feel free to feed them both, as you vie futilely for our attention. Convince yourself that you’re being ignored. Ah, delicious self -pity! You’re welcome. Just tip your waitress[3].

Perhaps you haven’t had a nice uncomfortable moment in a while. Find a crowded area, and stand on our quiet side. (Make sure your half-deaf can’t swap sides with you.) Then whisper something into their ornamental ear, forcing them to turn close for clarification. Then, make it abundantly clear that you’ve forgotten you’re talking to a half-deaf, and make them feel awkward, as you clearly wonder why they’re sticking their face in yours.

Snorers, early risers, and other nocturnal pariahs should absolutely seek out half-deafs as bedmates. With our convenient ‘total silence’ feature, (quiet ear up), we can sleep through sirens, sleep talking, and important alarm clocks, and will never make you feel bad about it[4]!

Give us a red eye flight, park bench, or booth at our hostessing job at Chili’s. We will sleep on it! When you’re wearing nature’s Bose headphones, the world is your Tempuredic mattress!

Look, we have a ways to go. No one’s rushing out to buy vintage hearing aid frames for the next Arcade Fire concert. No one assumes that we got this way because we blasted too many books on tape as teenagers. But we’re making strides every day[5]. Go ahead, find yourself a half-deaf. We’re waiting for you.

Smiling.

Laughing.

(We don’t really know what you’re saying.)

---

[1] Data compiled based on random survey of inhabitants of my apartment. Dog chose not to participate.

[2] In my case, left.

[3] Do that anyway.

[4] Might blame you for the alarm thing. Sorry. I’m a bitch without my coffee.

[5] Attempting to wrap my infantile brain around the asinine and absurd concept of adulthood.

This Is A Real Picture Of Where This Blog Was Written

In the last week I have watched Friday Night Lights eleven times and swept my kitchen not at all. There are dust bunnies under my couch that I have known about since Halloween. The passenger window of my Volvo is completely fogged over with my dog’s saliva, as permanent a fixture as the busted door handle I never felt like fixing, but you probably won’t notice either of those things because your attention really ought to be on the cookie wrapper, In-N-Out box, and bra at your feet.

I am a slob.

And I am fucking fine with it.

I don’t know what to tell you. I have a high tolerance for dust, dirty laundry, and dishes. I’m not saying I let shit get way out of whack – I’ve seen Hoarders. I can recognize when things are about to reach a breaking point. That’s when I take care of business. Drink a little extra coffee. Throw some stuff away. But until that point, I have to be honest. Cleaning is not a real priority, and I like it that way.

You guys, there is so much stuff to do that is more fun than cleaning. Actually, think of any verb right now. I bet whatever you thought of was more fun than scrubbing mildew with Comet.

As it is, I often wonder where my days go. I start out with a litany of things I’m hoping to get done, much of which is carried over from previous days’ to-do lists. To add an additional challenge to this back log of accomplishments, I am a flighty, nap-prone, tangent-taking piece of shit, which eats away at a more than substantial portion of my time. Exactly where in this hustle and bustle is cleaning supposed to fit in?

I mean, I’m barely one person.

I have found mess complacency to be a huge weight off my shoulders. It’s lovely to let go of an entire category of your responsibilities. It opens up time for irresponsibilities, which are obviously superior in every way.

And all you have to do to enjoy this freedom is be okay with a few old receipts in your make up case, a few empty shampoo bottles in your shower.

Done.

Frankly, I think slobs are fantastic people. I look for the quality in friends and living partners. Have a bowl of milk with Cheerios in your sink? Great. That just tells me: Hey, this is someone whose visits I won’t need to prep for, and they probably will also have an extra jacket in their car if I ever need to borrow one. Slobs are people you can rely on for spontaneous living supplies and a general lack of judgement.

I know, some of you are clean. Some of you fold your clothes when you pack, and sweep in places no one sees. I still love you. I mean, your living habits make me a little uncomfortable, but I try to remember that we just have a different threshold for mess. And a different amount of time free to hike and watch Roseanne.

God, I am such a dick.

Damn. The Man.

Okay, so it was my fault AT&T shut off my internet. I’m willing to at least accept culpability for not paying the bill. Or, for not having the money to pay it. I guess that is my fault. Mostly. The thing is, I paid the bill eventually. I still didn’t really have the money for the bill plus late fees and ‘you’re-a-piece-of-shit’ surcharges, but it had been a painful two days with my internet held ransom – I mean, no facebook in bed? What the fuck. I’m not a caveman. So I paid the amount, and was eagerly awaiting the return of mornings with Perez and Huff Post as I was on hold with my fifth incompetent operator, two and a half hours deep into the labyrinthine quagmire that is their customer service line. So many things had gone wrong with this call that I was more well -versed in their operating system than the people who worked there.

"AT & T."

“Hi. So, my internet got shut off, and I paid the bill, and I just need –“

“What’s your social security number?”

“I just gave it to the other girl.” Really? Every temp working the call center in Battle Creek needs my social and mother’s maiden name? I’m just supposed to be okay with that? But fine. I give it to her.

“Anyway, I need my internet back on, and apparently you guys switched internet types over the two days that mine was shut off, so your new internet isn’t compatible with my old modem, so I need a new modem, and the only way to do that is to buy it in a bundle with my phone, but my work order has already been submitted with the phone and internet separate, so I just need you to cancel those orders and submit it as a bundle.” See? I knew my shit. I didn’t want to talk about it anymore, though. I just wanted to get on with my day. I had other stuff to put off doing.
“Oh. I see. Yeah. It looks like you need to pay the fee.”
“No. I already paid the fee. I –“
“There’s a new fee. Hold on. Let me transfer you to the fee department.”

And that - was when I lost it. I was the customer. Uh, The Customer of ‘The Customer is always right’ fame? I didn’t have to put up with this! I could easily pack my bags and head over to Time Warner. I’m sure they would treat me…well, probably a little worse. I’d actually had Time Warner before, and they were at least as bad as AT & T. In fact, I recalled one incident wherein I spent five hours explaining to them that I never lived at an address where they accused me of having a past due bill. When I asked for information about what I could only assume was a fraudulent account, they said they couldn’t release anything because I had just told them it wasn’t my account. Why is dealing with these people such a goddamn M.C. Escher painting?!

Ugh. So, no, I couldn’t switch companies. I would just have to hunker down with AT & T, who’s cornered the market by being imperceptibly less horrendous than their competition. Because choosing a company to patronize in this country is like being forced to choose a husband in a White Power bar. Ultimately, you have to chug a stiff drink and just go with the one with the most teeth.

I’m not even sure I get to choose who I give my money to at all. I need AT &T, T-Mobile, and B of A much more than they will ever need me. My life without internet, cell phone, a place to deposit my checks, is an inconvenient uphill shit show. Their lives without me? Exactly the same. They could lose me, or thousands of me’s, tens of thousands of me’s and their bottom line would be effectively unchanged. So what am I supposed to do when I’m thwarted, abused, and extorted by them? Threaten to take my often past due balance elsewhere? Hold up my three figure bank balance like a floozy past her prime, and shake it in B of A’s face as I leave, taunting ‘You could have had aaaaaaall this!’ They would laugh. They would chuckle like the villains they are and remind themselves that they own entire countries.

Even the White Power bar isn’t that cocky. He has to hope there’s another girl with low self esteem waiting to be demeaned by him. I mean, there usually is, but still.

And this is why everywhere sucks. Because they can. Because the fundamental principle behind a free market - that entities who have to compete for consumer dollars will naturally have to keep their prices reasonable and their service decent – is null and void, and bull shit. Because inherent in that principle is the idea that the company relies on the consumer, and I for one am way too addicted to convenience, technology, and coffee on every corner for it to be reasonably construed that I am the one calling the shots. I’m not. I’m at peace with it. I get it. I lose, they win. Again. So if anyone needs me this week, I’ll be spending most of it with AT &T, phone to my ear, hands around my ankles, which, let’s face it, is the best way to welcome home the internet.

Who's The Boss?

"Never put off until tomorrow what you could do the day after tomorrow just as well." - Mark Twain
"I was supposed to write a blog based on this quote three weeks ago." - Me

I have a hard time getting out of bed sometimes. Every morning. And the problem is not my cavernous studio, nor my deaf ear, nor my love for PBR on a Wednesday. Rather, it is the interloping sea gull of an alarm that comes squawking into my subconscious, a vicious reminder of everything that seems futile about the day that lies ahead of me - an insipid attack on my delicious sleep, one that I feel I must defend myself against with the help of an adorable little button who goes by the name 'Snooze.'
MAH MAH MAH SAME SHIT DIFFERENT DAY.
Snooze!
Five minutes of bliss, then -
MAH MAH MAH MAH AND SAME SHIT MEANS OPEN FINAL DRAFT WRITE A SENTENCE STARE AT THE WALL PICK A SCAB WONDER IF YOU'LL EVER WRITE ANYTHING GOOD AGAIN.
Snooze! Snooze!
Oh. Thank God. Five more delicious min--
MAH MAH MAH MAH AND WONDERING IF YOU'LL EVER WRITE ANYTHING GOOD AGAIN MEANS GETTING DEPRESSED AND MAKING YOURSELF FEEL BETTER BY GOING TO THE STORE WHICH MEANS BUYING PUDDING CHIPS AND SALSA BECAUSE YOU DON'T KNOW HOW TO SHOP LIKE A GODDAMN ADULT.
Snooze! For the love of Pete! Snooze! Damn it! Who's the asshole that set this thing anyway?!
That asshole is, of course, me.
Because I'm self employed (or unemployed, for those of you who live outside of Los Angeles) which means that everyday I work for a boss who is so critical and micromanaging that I constantly feel compelled to defy her by slacking off behind her back.
She's such a stress case. She acts like the work we do is ridiculously important, and is always on my ass about why I haven't finished a project on time. She's borderline abusive - calls me lazy, unproductive, slow, and I just want to tell her "Lady, calm down. This isn't the E.R. We're writing jokes about the Kardashians here."
And nothing I ever do is good enough. Every premise I write is met with an eye roll, every set we listen to with groans of displeasure.
Frankly, I'm sick of her shit, and I've started doing something about it.
This juvenile work we do is comically close to her heart, so I sabotage it every chance I get. Pilot idea she's been dying to outline? Punchline she needs to streamline? I replace these stimulating, gratifying projects with the most mundane activities imaginable. Entire afternoons are spent tweezing toe hairs or looking for Hypercolor shirts on ebay as she stews over why we haven't heard back from that Lit Agent.
Just like most bosses, she's better at giving orders than executing them. Half the time she's barking demands at me, I find her 'brainstorming' on Facebook or 'taking a five' to jerk off. It's laughable that she even considers herself a real writer.
I know it sounds like I'm in a terrible work environment, but she's not awful 100% of the time.
She understands that I am a 'non-traditional worker' and can actually be pretty accommodating. She'll let me get 'a little high' sometimes in the morning, if I promise it will help with my writing, and our office dress code is simply 'pantsless casual.'
We have far fewer of those annoying midday work birthday parties than most folks. You'll only see a sheet cake around these parts a couple times a year: once, when it's her birthday, and her family sends one, and once when we have our annual 'Congratulations, Tess. You've Tricked Yourself Out of Being Successful, So Eat Up!' party -- which is actually pretty fun, because there's always lots of booze at that one.

Notes from a Butthead

I wish I could quit non-smoking.

I know I have it in me. I’ve done it before. There was a whole two-year spell in college where I was doing really well. I was focused then, committed. I would go days without skipping a cigarette – sometimes even hours. I’m not saying this was easy – far from it, actually. This was college, after all, and I was as broke as I was into Amnesty International. However, I was not going to let my financial status break my will. I took a part time job where I got paid in cash, and every night after work, I would head to 7-11 and spend my earnings on something I could feel good about: a nice fresh box of Camel Lights. Sure, I could have squandered my money on something ridiculous, like food or shampoo, but like I said, I was committed.

And my discipline paid off.

That was the healthiest I have ever been. Socially. I would walk into groups of strangers – a smoldering scum stick my ticket to butting into a conversation on emo music or experimental film. Any time I felt an awkward silence at bars or parties, I would gracefully excuse myself to go outside and join my brethren addicts – sucking down carbon dioxide in sub zero weather to avoid the uncomfortable conversation inside. I forged many a lasting friendship on balconies, in alleys, near stoops, reveling in the delightful crackle of laughter and chronic bronchitis.

Like many people, I started non-smoking socially. More and more of my friends started experimenting with breathing correctly, and I found myself joining them inside while ‘my people’ behaved like responsible smokers and religiously puffed away at their American Spirits (the cigarette of choice for smokers who cannot quit and thus punish themselves with a lifetime of foul tasting smokes.) I avoided the judgmental gaze of my smoking friends when I turned down a post-drink puff, telling everyone that ‘This was just a phase. Just something I do when I want to let loose and not hack up a lung.’

But then I stopped buying my own pack. Soon, I was non-smoking everywhere: the car, my apartment, even at bars, once my carbon monoxide wonderlands. It’s true what they say, too. A non-smoker is tough to be around. You constantly reek of smugness, and you cough up moral superiority everywhere you go. I know it’s a dirty habit and that it’s not good for me - I know it makes me unattractive to rock stars and former drug addicts, and I am constantly aware of the amazing conversations that are being held over ashed cigarettes and flicked Bics all across this great nation. Now, when I’m at a show or a party I have nothing to break the ice but my own awkward giggle and perhaps an anecdote about how my car battery died last week – and let’s face it, that’s just not lady like.

Every once in a while if I’ve had a really bad day or a really stiff drink, I’ll overcome my craving to not fill my mouth with the taste of exhaust and old asphalt, and bum one, but sure enough, I’ll break and put it out before I’ve finished the job. I just don’t think I can quit non-smoking. I don’t have that kind of will power.