Greetings from the Fire Escape

On 132nd Street &ampeventh Avenue lived an eccentric gay guy. If you guessed it was moi, you’re either a genius or do really read this blog, or both. He lived on top of a bar, which usually catered to senior citizens. His fire escape had thrilling views of New York’s most treasured architectural gems, the brownstone and tenement.
On a faithful early fall evening, he had a opened the window, crawled into a corner, and observed Harlem’s bustling and wonderfully gritty Seventh Avenue.

“Shit, I forgot I could see Midtown on a clear day,” he said to himself.

The usually misbehaved eccentric gay guy had an open secret. No he didn’t love the NFL or line dancing, but cigarettes. He pulled out a pack of American Spirits, releasing his inner hipster. Upon lighting, the hipster ciggie, he huffed and puffed, and went into a nicotine fix. The unthinkable then happened. The Cigarette accidentally fell from his fingers. Like a raven, it glided across the sky, until it landed in the awning of the bar below.

“Shit, fuck, shit, my apartment building could be burned down. I might be homeless,” he said to himself.

Waiting for the flame to cause a grisly fire, our eccentric gay guy called his father in California, who relieved his nerves. That night, he slept in fear. Catholic guilt shot through his liberal, fun-loving soul. However, everything was okay. The old tenement stood strong, with its vivid New York history. The next day, our eccentric gay guy decided, no more cigarettes with his morning coffee. Cigarettes were bad. He successfully ventured to the local coffee shop, Lenox Coffee, without smoking, afterwards.

Monday rolled around. After a stressful morning subway ride to Grand Central Station, he found a discreet (one of the few) for refreshing and stress relieving cigarette. The cigarette felt great. The light-headedness and obvious smell of tobacco stunk, literally and figuratively. After work, he smoked more. Eventually, he caught a nasty soar throat. He tried to smoke a cigarette, but the sensation only lasted two puffs.

In fact, he was so traumatized from smoking a cigarette on a soar throat; the eccentric gay could not touch a cigarette again. His lungs were no longer in the shape of a middle finger. Instead, they were happy, Xanax happy. The money he spent on cigarettes went to buying more books, coffee, and booze at the local dive. Local bookshop, bar, and coffee shop owners thanked him greatly for kicking the habit.

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