Cigarette Puff Quotes

I took a puff of the wrong cigarette at a fraternity dance once, and the cops had to get me, y'know. I broke two teeth trying to give a hickie to the Statue of Liberty.

I tap a Malediction out of the box, fire it up, and puff. It tastes like a tire fire in a candy factory next door to a strip club. The best cigarettes ever.

When I was young” … “Before I was twenty, I mean, I used to think that life was a thing that kept gaining impetus, it would get richer and deeper each year. You kept learning more, getting wiser, having more insight, going further into the truth” – she hesitated. Port laughed abruptly. – “And now you know it’s not like that. Right? It’s more like smoking a cigarette. The first few puffs it tasted wonderful, and you don’t even think of its ever being used up. Then you begin taking it for granted. Suddenly you realize it’s nearly burned down to the end. And then’s when you’re conscious of the bitter taste.

I'm the idiot box. I'm the TV. I'm the all-seeing eye and the world of the cathode ray. I'm the boob tube. I'm the little shrine the family gathers to adore.' 'You're the television? Or someone in the television?' 'The TV's the altar. I'm what people are sacrificing to.' 'What do they sacrifice?' asked Shadow. 'Their time, mostly,' said Lucy. 'Sometimes each other.' She raised two fingers, blew imaginary gunsmoke from the tips. Then she winked, a big old I Love Lucy wink. 'You're a God?' said Shadow. Lucy smirked, and took a ladylike puff of her cigarette. 'You could say that,' she said.

Stephanie took another puff from her candy cigarette, reached into her purse, brought out the rest of the pack, and said, "Want one of these damned cigarettes?

And the men with the cigarettes in their straight-lined mouths, the men with the eyes of puff adders, took up their load of machine and tube, their case of liquid melancholy and the slow dark sludge of nameless stuff, and strolled out the door.

It looks like a gingerbread house assembled by a thoroughly mad child,” Page said. He took a puff from his cigarette and stepped a few paces to the side as if to survey the house from a different angle. “I love it.

Calla removes the cigarette from her lips and, with the puff of smoke still in her lungs, leans forward and kisses him. Despite his words, he lets her release right into him, taking the toxins down his throat. He’ll let her poison him, swallow everything down like this is the sweetest liquor he has ever tasted.

This is true: if there was one thing my father taught me, it's that endings never work out the way you want them to--that they're terrible, and this one is no different. They're like the last drops of wine, the final puffs of a cigarette. They're Sunday nights, or the last afternoon of summer. They're flat tires and wet pairs of socks and cold dinners. They're the sort of thing that--no matter the effort, no matter the discipline--no one can get right.

Anoia, Goddess of Things That Get Stuck in Drawers,” said the woman. “Pleased to meet you.” She took another puff at the flaming cigarette, and there were more sparks. Some of them dropped on the floor but didn’t seem to do any damage. “There’s a goddess just for that?” said Tiffany. “Well, I find lost corkscrews and things that roll under furniture,” said Anoia offhandedly. “Sometimes things that get lost under sofa cushions, too. They want me to do stuck zippers, and I’m thinking about that. But mostly I manifest whensoever people rattle stuck drawers and call upon the gods.” She puffed on her cigarette. “Got any tea?

Things accumulated in purses. Unless they were deliberately unloaded and all contents examined for utility occasionally, one could find oneself transporting around in one's daily life three lipstick cases with just a crumb of lipstick left, an old eyebrow pencil sharpener without a blade, pieces of defunct watch, odd earrings, handkerchiefs (three crumpled, one uncrumpled), two grubby powder puffs, bent hairpins, patterns of ribbon to be matched, a cigarette lighter without fuel (and two with fuel), a spark plug, some papers of Bex and a sprinkling of loose white aspirin, eleven train tickets (the return half of which had not been given up), four tram tickets, cinema and theatre stubs, seven pence three farthings in loose change and the mandatory throat lozenge stuck to the lining. At least, those had been the extra contents of Phyrne's bag the last time Dot had turned it out.

Before I was twenty, I mean, I used to think that life was a thing that kept gaining impetus. It would get richer and deeper each year. You kept learning more, getting wiser, having more insight, going further into the truth—” She hesitated. Port laughed abruptly. “And now you know it’s not like that. Right? It’s more like smoking a cigarette. The first few puffs it tastes wonderful, and you don’t even think of its ever being used up. Then you begin taking it for granted. Suddenly you realize it’s nearly burned down to the end. And then’s when you’re conscious of the bitter taste.” “But I’m always conscious of the unpleasant taste and of the end approaching,” she said.

She took a puff, put the cigarette in the ashtray and stared at it. Without looking up, she said, But do you believe in love, Mr Evans? She rolled the cigarette end around in the ash tray. Do you? Outside, he thought, beyond this mountain and its snow, there was a world of countless millions of people. He could see them in their cities, in the heat and the light. And he could see this house, so remote and isolated, so far away, and he had a feeling that it once must have seemed to her and Jack, if only for a short time, like the universe with the two of them at its centre. And for a moment he was at the King of Cornwall with Amy in the room they thought of as theirs—with the sea and the sun and the shadows, with the white paint flaking off the French doors and with their rusty lock, with the breezes late of an afternoon and of a night the sound of the waves breaking—and he remembered how that too had once seemed the centre of the universe. I don’t, she said. No, I don’t. It’s too small a word, don’t you think, Mr Evans? I have a friend in Fern Tree who teaches piano. Very musical, she is. I’m tone-deaf myself. But one day she was telling me how every room has a note. You just have to find it. She started warbling away, up and down. And suddenly one note came back to us, just bounced back off the walls and rose from the floor and filled the place with this perfect hum. This beautiful sound. Like you’ve thrown a plum and an orchard comes back at you. You wouldn’t believe it, Mr Evans. These two completely different things, a note and a room, finding each other. It sounded … right. Am I being ridiculous? Do you think that’s what we mean by love, Mr Evans? The note that comes back to you? That finds you even when you don’t want to be found? That one day you find someone, and everything they are comes back to you in a strange way that hums? That fits. That’s beautiful. I’m not explaining myself at all well, am I? she said. I’m not very good with words. But that’s what we were. Jack and me. We didn’t really know each other. I’m not sure if I liked everything about him. I suppose some things about me annoyed him. But I was that room and he was that note and now he’s gone. And everything is silent.

I flirted with the darkness one night Lit the puff of a cigarette Behind the barn Before double digits Far too young to know of cancer Far too young to care

Teemu looks as though the slightest puff of wind could blow him to pieces. Benji passes him a cigarette.

Her daughter had given her a puff of a marijuana cigarette once, but after all the hot pads on the counter started walking toward her, she got scared and never tried it again. So dope was out.

Once inside she hesitated, and in addition to the cigarettes grabbed a diet soda and a yellow puff pastry wrapped in cellophane. She doubted it contained a single natural component, but sometimes synthetic is what you are after.

And the men with the cigarettes in their straight-lined mouths, the men with the eyes of puff-adders, took up their load of machine and tube, their case of liquid melancholy and the slow dark sludge of nameless stuff, and strolled out the door.

And where in the automobile is the offal that so offends with the horse? There is none, only a puff of smoke that vanishes in the air. An automobile is as harmless as a cigarette. Mark my words, Tomás: This century will be remembered as the century of the puff of smoke!

You’re smaller than I imagined you,” she said with a smirk. She took a puff from her cigarette and exhaled the smoke. It smelled sweet and heady. This was the type of cigarette that made people see God, slowed time and attracted happiness. “Maybe your imagination is not big enough,” Sankofa said.

Then, setting the glass down, he looked at me and waited. Because that's what has-beens do: they wait. When it comes to waiting, has-beens have had plenty of practice. Like when they were waiting for their big break, or their number to come in. Once it became clear that those things weren't going to happen, they started waiting for other things. Like for the bars to open, or the welfare check to arrive. Before too long, they were waiting to see what it would be like to sleep in a park, or take the last two puffs from a discarded cigarette. They were waiting to see what new indignity they could become accustomed to while they were waiting to be forgotten by those they once held dear. But most of all, they waited for the end.

For the sultan Wilhelm II had brought the latest German rifle, but when he tried to present it Abdul Hamid at first shrank away in terror thinking he was about to be assassinated. The heir to Suleiman the Magnificent who had made Europe tremble nearly four centuries earlier was a miserable despot so fearful of plots that he kept a eunuch near him whose sole duty was to take the first puff on each of his cigarettes.

One of the best, but toughest, ways to stop wrinkles is to quit smoking. Each puff you take contains billions and billions of free radicals. Nicotine suffocates the skin, causing it to deteriorate. Cigarettes contain thousands of chemicals that destroy elastin and collagen, the proteins that make your skin taut and wrinkle free. The act of smoking—with its puckering and blowing—also creates “dynamic” wrinkles, those caused by repetitive motion. Smoking also shortens telomeres. Quit smoking to prevent further damage, and allow the DASH diet’s good nutrition to start repairing your skin.

Mohammad’s face is serious. He takes another puff of his cigarette and coughs out dead air which, after leaving his lungs and hitting the outside world, takes its first breath on a journey to a fresher life. He drops his cigarette into the snow, places his foot over the burning end, twists his shoe to make sure it’s out, and tells me he’s trusting me. I have no idea what he’s trusting me with, but whatever it is, it’s so dangerous or evil he can’t bring himself to speak of it out loud. Hitler has just shared with me his plans for the final solution, and I've been subtly informed I have no choice but to come along for the ride.

When it comes to waiting, has-beens have had plenty of practice. Like when they were waiting for their big break, or for their number to come in. Once it became clear that those things weren't going to happen, they started waiting for other things. Like for the bars to open, or the welfare check to arrive. Before too long, they were waiting to see what it would be like to sleep in a park, or to take the last two puffs from a discarded cigarette. They were waiting to see what new indignity they could become accustomed to while they were waiting to be forgotten by those they once held dear. But most of all, they waited for the end.

James finished his curry and wandered off on his own. He noticed a girl leaning against a tree smoking. Long hair, baggy jeans. She was about James’s age, nice looking. He didn’t remember her from any of the intelligence files. “Hey, can I have a drag?” James said, trying to sound cool. “Sure,” the girl said. She passed James the cigarette. James had never tried one before and hoped he wasn’t about to make an idiot of himself. He gave it a little suck. It burned his throat, but he managed not to cough. “Not seen you here before,” the girl said. “I’m Ross,” James said. “Staying here with my aunt for a bit.” “Joanna,” the girl said. “I live in Craddogh.” “Haven’t been there yet,” James said. “It’s a dump, two shops and a post office. Where you from?” “London.” “I wish I was,” Joanna said. “You like it here?” “I’m always covered in mud. I want to go to bed, but there’s a guy playing guitar three meters from where I sleep. I wish I could go home, have a warm shower, and see my mates.” Joanna smiled. “So why are you staying with your aunt?” “Long story: Parents are getting divorced. Mum freaking out. Got expelled from school.” “So you’re good-looking and you’re a rebel,” Joanna said. James was glad it was quite dark because he felt himself blush. “You want the last puff, Ross?” “No, I’m cool,” James said. Joanna flicked the cigarette butt into the night. “So, I paid you a compliment,” Joanna said. “Yeah.” Joanna laughed. “So do I get one back?” she asked. “Oh, sure,” James said. “You’re really like . . . nice.” “Can’t I get any better than nice?” “Beautiful,” James said. “You’re beautiful.” “That’s more like it,” Joanna said. “Want to kiss me?” “Um, OK,” James said. James was nervous. He’d never had the courage to ask a girl out. Now he was about to kiss someone he’d known for three minutes. He pecked her on the cheek. Joanna shoved James against the tree and started kissing his face and neck. Her hand went in the back pocket of James’s jeans, then she jumped backwards.

Privacy was like cigarettes. No single puff on a cigarette would give you cancer, but smoke enough of the things and they’d kill you dead, and by the time you understood that in your guts, it was too late. Smoking is all up-front pleasure and long-term pain, like cheesecake or sex with beautiful, fucked-up boys. It’s the worst kind of badness, because the consequences arrive so long after—and so far away from—the effects. You can’t learn to play baseball by swinging at the ball with your eyes closed, running home, and waiting six months for someone to call you up and let you know whether you connected. You can’t learn to sort the harmless privacy decisions from the lethal ones by making a million disclosures, waiting ten years, and having your life ruined by one of them. Industry was pumping private data into its clouds like the hydrocarbon barons had pumped CO2 into the atmosphere. Like those fossil fuel billionaires, the barons of the surveillance economy had a vested interest in sowing confusion about whether and how all this was going to bite us in the ass. By the time climate change can no longer be denied, it’ll be too late: we’ll have pumped too much CO2 into the sky to stop the seas from swallowing the world; by the time the datapocalypse is obvious even to people whose paychecks depended on denying it, it would be too late. Any data you collect will probably leak, any data you retain will definitely leak, and we’re putting data-collection capability into fucking lightbulbs now. It’s way too late to decarbonize the surveillance economy.

She no longer had to endure the harshness of British cigarettes, which in any case were so scarce that when she smoked one and the butt became too short to hold in her fingers, she used a pin to keep it steady while she eked out the last few precious puffs.

KAMRY K1000 EPIPE SINBAD VAPORS This is by far the best e-pipe you can find on the market today. It is so sleek and elegant, yet durable. You can customize it with your own tanks and it comes in a variety of different colors. This complete kit has everything you will ever need--just add your juice and then you are ready to puff some serious clouds... like a pro. This piece is a conversation starter for sure--vape with style! All colors that you see in picture are available. Kit Includes: K1000 Battery Body K1000 Matching Drip Tip Kamry 18350 IMR Battery x2 K1000 Atomizer Charger Manual

Things accumulated in purses. Unless they were deliberately unloaded and all contents examined for utility occasionally, one could find oneself transporting around in one’s daily life three lipstick cases each with just a crumb of lipstick left, an old eyebrow pencil sharpener without a blade, pieces of defunct watch, odd earrings, handkerchiefs (three crumpled, one uncrumpled), two grubby powder puffs, bent hairpins, patterns of ribbon to be matched, a cigarette lighter without fuel (and two with fuel), a spark plug, some papers of Bex and a sprinkling of loose white aspirin, eleven train tickets (the return half of which had not been given up), four tram tickets, cinema and theatre stubs, seven`pence three farthings in loose change and the manda-tory throat lozenge stuck to the lining. At least, those had been the extra contents of Phryne’s bag the last time Dot had turned it out. The

Brokers could spread their geographical presence through the length and breadth of nation and subsequently reach out customers who otherwise would never have gotten the chance to venture into stock investment. Auction, bidding, negotiation and what not, everything takes place at computer terminals. In the old system of outcry auction calling out the price on the trading floor, everyone would know which broker actually trades. But in the new system anonymity is maintained. You can play with millions of shares with cup of tea in one hand and puff of cigarette on the other. There

Zorba sighed. He lit a cigarette, took one or two puffs and then threw it away. "My country, you say?… You believe all the rubbish your books tell you…? Well, I'm the one you should believe. So long as there are countries, man will stay like an animal, a ferocious animal… But I am delivered from all that, God be praised! It's finished for me! What about you?

I told them I failed my draft physical. My dad, who often dismissively uttered the words "I can't wait 'til the army gets ahold of you," sat at the kitchen table, flicked the ash off of his cigarette, took a puff, slowly let the smoke escape from his lips and mumbled, "That's good.

Old. I’m almost forty, probably as close now to Mrs. Masicotte’s age as I am to the age of my parents as they sat on that lawn, laughing and blowing dandelion puffs at me, smoking their shared Pall Mall cigarettes and thinking Mrs. Masicotte was the answer to their future—that that black-and-white Emerson television set was a gift free and clear of the strings that would begin our family’s unraveling.

I tap a Malediction out of the box, fire it up, and puff. It tastes like a tire fire in a candy factory next door to a strip club. The best cigarettes in the universe.

Do you hate seeing me wheeze?’ No, we said, it’s fine. ‘Help yourself to the cigarettes in the kitchen drawers’ she said, ‘and one day you too will wheeze like me. The daisies on my grave will puff and wheeze, you mark my words.

Découvre la boutique de PuffBar France, nous vendons des cigarettes électroniques jetables avec 3 modèles différents: Puff bar, Puff Flow et Puff XXl. Retrouve plus de 20 saveurs différentes pour vapoter. Clique sur le lien pour accéder à la boutique Puffbar.Tu souhaites etre à la mode ? Procure toi une de nos puffbar pour valider le concept !

DASH Wrinkles One of the best, but toughest, ways to stop wrinkles is to quit smoking. Each puff you take contains billions and billions of free radicals. Nicotine suffocates the skin, causing it to deteriorate. Cigarettes contain thousands of chemicals that destroy elastin and collagen, the proteins that make your skin taut and wrinkle free. The act of smoking—with its puckering and blowing—also creates “dynamic” wrinkles, those caused by repetitive motion. Smoking also shortens telomeres. Quit smoking to prevent further damage, and allow the DASH diet’s good nutrition to start repairing your skin.

Marketeers have become so savvy at creating emotional associations with their products that they have us believing electric vehicles are "green," though in some ways they pollute differently than gas vehicles and in other ways the same. Electric vehicles are no more “eco-friendly” than low-tar cigarettes are “healthy,” but whether driving the one or smoking the other they both give us reason to puff our chests.

Marketeers have become so savvy at creating emotional associations with their products that they have us believing electric vehicles are "green," though in some ways they pollute differently than gas vehicles and in other ways the same. Electric vehicles are no more “green” than low-tar cigarettes are “healthy,” but whether driving the one or smoking the other they both give us reason to puff our chests.

Marketeers have become so savvy at creating emotional associations with their products that they have us believing electric vehicles are "green," though in some ways they pollute differently than gas vehicles and in other ways the same. Electric vehicles are no more “green” than low-tar cigarettes are “healthy,” but whether driving the one or smoking the other we've been given a reason to puff our chests.

Three windows. And in the third, high in the top storey of the solid, snow-hushed house on this hill at the edge of Christmas the most extraordinary face of all: a visage of curious alloy: earthly wisdom and heavenly innocence, grief like a stone and humor like flame; a face of age and yet of ageless youth. Marya Alexander, mother of Nell Dance, sits in her flowered rocker by the glass and sees through it the soft, white onslaught of the snow and read within each intricately. Jeweled flake the timelessness of Time itself and of loss and of love and of love’s ending. Upon her old spectacles perches a small gold parakeet and she puffs now pensively upon a cigarette and blows the ghost of smoke against the enchanted window pane and witnesses there, for an instant, the misted image of faces long lost beneath so many snows, and smiles to herself at the knowing that Christmastide and a good heart’s breath against a cold pane are enough to bring lost faces back in evergreen eternity.

The girl who asked me the time lights yet another cigarette. I’m sure it’s not so much the pleasure of the nicotine that makes these girls smoke so much – they hardly puff at their cigarettes – it’s having the thing in their hand to complete the pose. They all smoke with practised ease and naturalism, yet this girl has the gestures off more perfectly than most. How to define it? Some equation of extended fingers and wrist bend, lip-pout and head-tilted exhalation. She smokes with great sexual grace: her body is brown and lean and she’s pretty with long milk-chocolate brown hair. And somehow she knows that her perfect manipulation of that perfect white cylinder of packed tobacco sends a subliminal signal to the boys – all their eyes are flicking like lizards’ – that she is ready.

Your body wants to be healthy. And every night of your smoking life, as you fall asleep, that healing process is re-started until... bam! you light up your first cigarette the next morning. Just as you can reinjure your lungs with every puff, you can reinjure your arteries with every bite. You can choose moderation and hit yourself with a smaller hammer, but why beat yourself up at all? You can choose to stop damaging yourself, get out of your own way, and let your body's natural healing process bring you back toward health.

They walked round the open space, in the center of which stands a fine group of Silenus figures, and stopped. The infantryman threw away his cigarette. The Senegalese picked it up, took a few quick puffs at it, put it out by squeezing it between his fore-finger and thumb and stuffed it into his pocket. All this without a word.

Once I went into another Bulgarian village. And one old brute who'd spotted me - he was a village elder - told the others and they surrounded the house I was lodging in. I slipped out onto the balcony and crept from one roof to the next; the moon was up and I jumped from balcony to balcony like a cat. But they saw my shadow, climbed up onto the roofs and started shooting. So what do I do? I dropped down into the yard, and there I found a Bulgarian woman in bed. She stood up in her nightdress, saw me and opened her mouth to shout, but I held out my arms and whispered: "Mercy! Mercy! Don't shout!" and seized her breasts. She went pale and half swooned.' "Come inside," she said in a low voice. "Come in so that we can't be seen ..." 'I went inside, she gripped my hand: "Are you a Greek?" she said. "Yes, Greek. Don't betray me." I took her by the waist. She said not a word. I went to bed with her, and my heart trembled with pleasure. "There, Zorba, you dog," I said to myself, "there's a woman for you; that's what humanity means! What is she? Bulgar? Greek? That's the last thing that matters! She's human, and a human being with a mouth, and breasts, and she can love. Aren't you ashamed of killing? Bah! Swine!" 'That's the way I thought while I was with her, sharing her warmth. BUT DID THAT MAD BITCH, MY COUNTRY, LEAVE ME IN PEACE FOR THAT, DO YOU THINK? I disappeared next morning in the clothes the Bulgar woman gave me. She was a widow. She took her late husband's clothes out of a chest, gave them to me, and she hugged my knees and begged me to come back to her.' 'Yes, yes, I did go back ... the following night. I was a patriot then, of course - a wild beast; I went back with a can of paraffin and set fire to the village. She must have been burnt along with the others, poor wretch. Her name was Ludmilla.' Zorba sighed. He lit a cigarette, took one or two puffs and then threw it away. 'My country, you say? ... You believe all the rubbish your books tell you ... ? Well, I'm the one you should believe. So long as there are countries, man will stay like an animal, a ferocious animal... But I am delivered from all that, God be praised! It's finished for me! What about you?' I didn't answer. I was envious of the man. He had lived with his flesh and blood - fighting, killing, kissing - all that I had tried to learn through pen and ink alone. All the problems I was trying to solve point by point in my solitude and glued to my chair, this man had solved up in the pure air of the mountains with his sword. I closed my eyes, inconsolable.

His unfiltered Camel crackled like a miniature campfire. He didn’t puff the cigarette so much as exorcise a demon from it. Five inhales and the thing was spent. Then he cracked open the window and in the rearview I saw it fly like a comet.

One thing consumed drugs all have in common, is our initial natural aversion toward them. The first mouthful of alcohol we drink is generally followed by an involuntary grimace. The first puff on a chemical-laden cigarette is followed often by a cough and splutter as the body tries to repel the alien pollution thrust upon it. Our first coffee and tea are generally also greeted somewhat similarly. Of course, it is frequently the case that despite these initial reactions, we push on past them until addiction is formed. Cooked food, although noticeably less recognised as addictive, evokes no less an initial reaction. Think of all those babies whose faces screw up in displeasure vainly attempting rejection of the denatured slop thrust upon them, and the hours spent crying from stomach pains. By the time they are advanced enough to linguistically voice their lack of desire for such foods, they are, alas, already well hooked.

... she ran to the little bed and seized hold of her beloved with a tender moan (my chocolate croissant, my little warm brioche), and began to eat her up with kisses. This consuming love never stopped. When Marie drank her coffee, she would nibble her daughter's cheek between two sips, the way others take a puff on their cigarette.

--the Falls,” Ashley was explaining once more. “Closer to the water than it used to be. I wish they’d fix it so it wouldn’t flood.” This time Miranda did her best to focus. “So…it’s like, a waterfall?” “No.” Roo exhaled a stream of smoke. “It’s like, a cemetery.” “A real cemetery?” “I told you this was a bad idea.” Taking a last puff, Roo tossed the cigarette. “I told you it would freak her out too much.” “I didn’t say I was freaked out. I just asked if it was a real cemetery.” “Actually, it’s a park and a cemetery--” Ashley began, but Roo cut her off. “There was a big battle here during the Civil War. And afterward, there were lots of dead Yankee soldiers who couldn’t be identified. So when nobody claimed their bodies, the town built a cemetery for them.” She paused, chewed thoughtfully on a short, black fingernail. “Originally, it was called Site of the Fallen Union. But over the years, it got shortened to just the Falls.” “And therein lies the irony!” Parker grinned. “Because, as we all know, it wasn’t the Union that ended up falling.” Straining forward, Roo tilted the rearview mirror so that Parker’s face disappeared from view. He calmly readjusted it.

Nicotine patches are somewhere in between gum and cigarettes. They contain more nicotine than the gum, but since you absorb it slowly through your skin throughout the day, you get sustained focus and energy. When I tried nicotine patches, I’d take the smallest-dose patch I could find and cut it in half (even though it says not to on the label). I’d leave it on for one to two hours, so I would get 1–4 mg of nicotine during that time. Nicotine inhalers are relatively hard to find, but Nicorette makes them, and they have no chemicals at all. It’s just a sponge with nicotine and a little plastic straw that you suck through to get nicotine-scented air. I like these because they’re free of nasty chemicals, but the downside is that the act of sucking on something appears to be addictive. I found myself wanting to take a puff from one when I was sitting at my desk, even when I didn’t need or want the energy from it—so I quit! Nicotine lozenges, like nicotine gum, are full of crappy chemicals and sweeteners such as aspartame, acesulfame potassium (ace-K), and sucralose. The safest one I’ve found is the Nicorette mini lozenge, which is very small and contains no aspartame. You do get a small dose of unsafe sweetener, but it’s so tiny that it’s unlikely to matter much. When I take half of the smallest, 2 mg lozenge, I feel a cognitive shift in about fifteen minutes. These lozenges are easy to find in the United States. And make sure to get the mini lozenges, as the large Nicorette lozenges are full of chemicals you don’t want to put in your body. Nicotine spray is a more recent invention. Each spray of 1 mg of nicotine contains vanishingly small amounts of sucralose. You spray it under your tongue and feel it quickly, making it an excellent option when you want a burst of sustained energy. I’ve done more than one interview while on this, and I find it’s great for jet lag or when you have a heavy day ahead of you and want to maintain focus. If you do decide to try nicotine, treat it carefully. A safe

the tobacco smell reminded him as it always did of his departed father, who would listen with him on his record player to audio recordings of science fiction adventures, and would pack and puff on his pipe, as sea creatures attacked a great submarine, the sounds of the wind and waves in the recording mixing with the sounds of the rain on their window, and the elderly man who was then a boy had thought, when I grow up I too will smoke, and here he was, a smoker for the better part of a century, about to light a cigarette

Watch out for Rafe,” Corey said. “I saw him in the smoking pit.” “Phony,” I muttered. “She thinks he’s not a real smoker,” Daniel explained. “He’s not. Half the time he doesn’t light his cigarette. The other half he takes a couple of puffs and puts it out. It’s part of the bad boy package.” Corey grinned. “Been paying attention, have you?” “Maya always pays attention,” Daniel said. “She notices everything and has an opinion on it, which she’s not afraid to share as frequently and as loudly as possible.” Corey laughed. “Watch it,” I said as I walked away, “or I’ll share my opinions on what happened last night.