I sat at the small circular glass table outside of the local pub. The freezing wind pierced through my skin like a scalpel dragged across the corpse of a deceased victim of this world. The hairs on my arms stood up like long blades of grass, slowly swaying side to side. I took a pull off my cigarette and let the heavy burning smoke pass down my throat. The ash brightened as I inhaled, promising a soothing relief to the collapsing light, barely breaking through the burly grey clouds. Squinting into the light, I was intrigued; intrigued by its promise, the almost immaculate sensation it provided, the possibilities it held. I turned back to the table, carefully tapping off the buildup of ash on the end of my cigarette into the mound of black and grey nothingness held within the ashtray. The door to the pub swung open and two of my friends emerged, each with large pints in hand, trading insults jokingly, but holding back with no profanity. I turned my head to greet them as they both sat down to join me.

“Here, pass the pack will ye, may roll one for myself,” muttered John as he collapsed into a slump in his chair. I obliged, handing him the bag of tobacco and the packet of papers. John was quick to pinch up the brown shreds, carefully separating and distributing them into a small,  feeble little rolling paper. One small filter, and a few quick adjustments of his fingers later, I leaned over and lit up the cig for him, careful to protect the flame from any gust of wind. We all sat around trying to converse, but most of our words were incoherent gibberish than held no impact or any weight.

                 My mind was elsewhere, but the light from the sky was receding more and more by the minute, and so we re-entered the pub. The door swung open and instantaneously my ears were consumed by the roar of old men grumbling at each other, high pitched screams of women excited to see each other, and the slurs of drunken misfits ready for a night of chaos. Of course though, those drunken slurs were my greeting, and I accepted them graciously as I stumbled into the large booth. It was a tight squeeze, but the noise was even more contracting. There’s nothing louder than a group of drunken bastards, enjoying themselves and their ninth pint, all while trying to hear each other over the already obnoxious sounds of elderly, wrinkled men slurring words to the soccer match on the TV.

“Here Paul, will ye go up and get the next pints?”, managed my friend Sean as he sat almost sliding off the seat underneath him.

“I will ye”, I replied in a sarcastic tone.

After further annoyance, I obliged and went to the front of the pub and ordered another round of drinks. I watched as the bubbling liquid raised itself inside the glass, foaming at the top, creating a layer of clouds and a mist along the outside of the glass. I raised the rim of the glass to my lips and gently sipped on the orange elixir of the night. The strong and bitter taste greeted my taste buds with a cold embrace, offering comfort to me in the sea of roaring conversation. I returned to the booth, drinks in hand and stumbling from the weight of the ethanol that was gathering within the depths of my body. Intoxication would be an euphemism of my current state. I felt the itching once more, and my craving kicked in. I exited the pub alongside two of my other companions, and we all slithered into the freezing cold embrace of thatched steel chairs. I reached into my coat pocket and felt around with the tips of my fingers, attempting to acquire the rather large packet of tobacco that seemed to be missing. After a long moment, I pulled the packet out and flung it to the table, the soft thud could not be heard. I opened the packet and begin to pinch the shreds between my fingers, carefully twisting and breaking up the clumped together mess. I retrieved the frail and crumpled rolling papers and began to empty the large mound of tobacco into it. I straightened out the curling paper and took the two ends carefully between my fingers, careful not to spill its contents. The bitter winds caused me to shiver in my chair, and the large woolen coat I wore did not provide any sense of relief to my struggle. With cold hands shivering and becoming more numb by the minute, I rolled up the contents with the paper and placed it in my hand. I raised a large zippo lighter to my face and released the top with a large clinking sound. I watched as my fingers spun the wheel to ignite the flint, and saw the bright orange inferno climb its way up the already burned and decaying wick, reaching the top and waiving its scalding flames in the wind, undeterred and determined in its purpose. I placed the end of the meager rolled tobacco into the engulfing and blazing flames that flailed about under the dark night sky. The paper took the flame within itself and began to slowly burn and burn as I inhaled with large deep breaths. I watched as the once radiant element turned from a large and imposing force into one of stealth and surprise as it slowly crawled along the edges of the dirty, white paper. I was becoming more and more dependent on these goddamn things. I’d be lucky enough to go a day without one, but then again, I don’t believe I could even achieve such a feat. The monumental achievement that was simply, just not smoking, was once an everyday norm, but it was a hastily turning into a white rabbit; a white rabbit that dove head first into wonderland with rockets strapped to its back and no ability to shut them off. It was a losing battle, but one that I didn’t even want to win. Theses damned things lurked in the shadows of my being like a distant memory awaiting to resurface, slowly creeping their way into my mind and ever so slightly tapping on my brain reminding me to go have another. Cursed things they were, and yet I welcomed them more so than even some of my closest friends.