One time, at a National’s baseball game, I had a cigarette put out on my arm.
I recommend it not at all. It’s like, hot and painful. And apparently what you get for leaving early. I assume I was the one to be smote by the baseball gods because I was the one driving home. Though, for the record, it wasn’t my idea to leave. I just didn’t object to it very strongly.
I doubt I’ll be scarred for life, seeing as how it has been healing nicely over this past week. Though, it would be fun to point at and tell the tale of how Bren and Al caused such torture. The pain and anguish… the suffering I went through… I mean, a cigarette! Put out on human flesh!
Actually, it didn’t hurt as much as I assumed it would, that is, if I had I ever really taken the time out to think about how much it would hurt. Maybe it was because I was so quick to brush away the offensive fiery ash. But, a note to all you smokers out there… please keep the smoldering parts of your cancer sticks away from those of us who would rather leave a somewhat boring baseball game a little bit early.
I mean, there’s a proper time and place for burning people with cigarettes. And wholesome family baseball games are not that time or place.
Although, without a scar I won’t have a nifty souvenir from Bren’s visit here. And that’s something worth having a reminder of forever, seeing as how I managed to let her slip away without any photo ops. Maybe a thank you to the anonymous smoker would be more in order… you know, if she had done the job properly.
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