I had a fight with my girlfriend. The usual kind of fight where she calls Martha Stewart a slut and I defend her. I know between pumpkin and puce, she is queen. So I moved out. I am now living in a cigarette machine. I was gonna go to the Executive All Suites Hotel, a place where you can buy Pepto Bismol by the airport-sized bottle, but apparently my $3,000 Canadian credit card was no longer valid. So I've moved into the cigarette machine and I'm comfortable here. It's like being in a restaurant - sometimes I sit in the smoking section, not because I smoke but because I prefer the people.
Inside a cigarette machine, it's so silent, until someone buys a pack - then the noise and the movement begins, like robots above me, fighting or having sex. or both. My bed is a pack of Menthols. The cellophane keeps the cardboard beneath me clean. I stare at the packages over my head, lined up like little bombs waiting to be hatched, and I think about girls in highschool, whose names, but not faces, I have forgotten, and wonder why I never smoked and if Martha Stewart is staring up at a floral version of my world.