I forgot my smokes. I’ve been a Camel studs freak for fifteen years. No filters ... filters are bad. Filters foul the lungs with cotton fibers. Sure, they filter the smoke ... but that stain on the cotton filter is pure nicotine ... and those atains are on your lips. Lick your lips because singing makes them dry ... nicotine concentrate.

I smoked between breaks. They take my mind off the drama queens. How could I have run off without them?

I had my Bic and nothing to fire up. The dorm where we practiced had a machine... four quarters and pull the knob under your choice ... the machine eats your money but there are Smokes.

I wandered over and deposited a buck, pulled the knob and grabbed the small pack. 20 Camels. I stripped off the cellophane sealing, tamped the pack on the back of my hand to concentrate the tobacco, opened the pack and tore off the cheap foil top between the tax-stamp and the edge. Always the Camel is facing me and the tear off is always on the right ... it’s the law ... my law anyway. I tamped the pack again and three studs were exposed. I chose one, looked ... no ... admired ... the slim white cylinder, passed the white paper clad tobacco under my nose and realized that THIS one smelled different. This one smelled like another product I was known to smoke ... preferred even.