Hello. My name is Cat.

Old work

The bar’s patio was crowded - smoke, smoke, hipsters, smoke.  In fact, smoke was so prevalent it stuck to each molecule of the summer air.  Much like the smoke to air ratio, torn jeans and tight, tattered shirts clung to individuals (mostly males because it’s a “statement”) as they puffed cigarettes and drank long island ice teas.  Men chattered, tossing their overtly styled hairdos.  Women chortled, scratching their exposed flesh.  And the music!  The fast beats, the pounding of local DJs - it all set the scene for a cultural shift toward androgyny

I smoked two-thirds of my cigarette pack that night.  The other third was given to strange beatniks, struggling musicians, and out of work intellectuals.  At the time, I considered the donation as a compassionate act.  In a way, those cigarettes represented outstretched arms to unfortunate fucks who needed to settle a vice.

As I puffed and drank, a man approached me.  He had dark hair, which is actually an understatement.  He had curled coifs of hair the color of pot roast.  Several locks were plastered with grease to the side of his forehead while the rest hung loosely around his head.  Regarding his choice of wardrobe, I truly do not understand current male fixation with little girl apparel. 

“Excuse me.  May I buy a cigarette from you?”  he asked, holding out a quarter.

“You don’t have to buy one.  You can have one,” I replied as I eyed up the unicorn cartoon on his red t-shirt.  “Do you have a sexual fetish for unicorns?”

“Nah, man.  I just think it’s cool.”
“Okay.”