For most of March, I needed time away from the human race and pretty much self-isolated—except for essential appointments like getting my hair and nails done. Yesterday, familial obligations forced me back into society, wreaking havoc on my nervous system.
Today, craving a cigar to soothe my nerves, I ventured to a cigar lounge in the next city over—my second encounter with human idiocy in as many days.
As I walked in, the owner—a typical male baby boomer—immediately greeted me.
Me: “I’m looking for breakfast cigars to pair with my black coffee.”
Owner: “I don’t have any flavored cigars.”
IN THAT EXACT MOMENT, I REALIZED I AM STILL NOT READY TO REINTEGRATE WITH THE HUMAN RACE.
I informed him I’d select my own cigars and meet him at the register. I was done entertaining assumptions from someone who figured I’d want flavored cigars just because I’m a fucking female.
Rather than stay at the lounge surrounded by people, I came home to savor my cigar under the SoCal sun, bronzing my bod in blissful solitude. Cigars and zero humans on a Saturday afternoon—that’s how I stay #dayclubready.
Icons don’t dim their light,
Medusa
☀️👙🍸🚬
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