And Then I Thought I was a Fish

IDENTIFYING INFORMATION: Peter Hunt Welch is a 20-year-old single Caucasian male who was residing in Bar Harbor, Maine this summer. He is a University of Maine at Orono student with no prior psychiatric history, who was admitted to the Acadia Hospital on an involuntary basis due to an acute level of confusion and disorganization, both behaviorally and cognitively. He was evaluated at MDI and was transferred from that facility due to psychosis, impulse thoughts, delusions, and disorientation.

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Observations of a Straight White Male with No Interesting Fetishes

Ever wondered how to justify your own righteousness even while you're constantly embarrassed by it? Or how to make a case for your own existence when you contribute nothing besides nominal labor to a faceless corporation that's probably exploiting children? Are you clinging desperately to an arbitrary social model imposed by your parents and childhood friends? Or screaming in terror, your mind unhinged at the prospect of an uncaring void racing to consume the very possibility of your life having meaning?

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This is the story of a boy, a girl, a phone, a cat, the end of the universe, and the terrible power of ennui.

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Seriously, Make a Better eCigarette

Composed on the 28th of May in the year 2016, at 2:45 PM. It was Saturday.

This isn’t rocket science. You’re close, but you can’t get it quite right. You, Juul: I heard you’re doing something to fix the nicotine delivery. That’s good, but your device looks like crap. It’s not a cigarette.

I’m not here to talk about the assholes who picked up vaping as a hobby and carry around those bullshit portable hookahs and blow stank in everyone’s face—but seriously, those fuckers need to learn some shame. Just because it’s not technically poison doesn’t mean it isn’t obnoxious. A good smoker has been glared at twice a day for years: we know how to keep our emission levels on the DL.

And these are the smokers I want to talk about. Smokers like me, who want to quit almost as much as we want a damn cigarette. You guys are dropping the ball. So here’s what we want, and it’s on one of you to get it done.

Size matters

This is a cigarette.

It’s not the bastard child of a Camel and a Philly. It’s not a fancy pen. It’s 8mm in diameter and 84mm long. That’s what 99 percent of smokers have been holding between their fingers for the last few decades. I don’t think anyone even makes extra-wide 140s, and that’s mostly what you’ve been pedaling.


This doesn’t matter so much, so let’s just grab the two colors everybody grabs when they want to look like money.

Black and gold. Because the designer doesn’t give a shit.


So what color is the light?

Remember those cold nights in your sophomore year of college, stumbling through your first or second romance, not sure if you should move closer to your date, you’re not even sure if you’re on a date, but you’re alone together on the hill, pulling your coats tighter, talking about nothing, wondering if the next pause is the right moment, looking at the stars, awesome in their beauty, trivial next to the beating of your heart, the softest curves of your faces gently brushed onto the night by the neon green light of your cigarettes?

Yeah, neither do I, because the light’s fucking red. We call the burning part of the cigarette the cherry because it’s red. If it was green we would call it the fucking lime.


The thing you guys are missing is the overall feel of the ritual. It’s not just smoke coming out of a tube. There’s a lot of tactile triggers we want, and you’re giving us an oversized chunk of ceramic. If I want something too big and rock hard in my mouth, I’ve got options.

That filter part should have a little texture and a little give. Find some kind of rubber or whatever so it’s not clicking off my teeth like a little alarm screaming “THIS IS NOT A CIGARETTE.”


A cigarette takes twelve to fifteen drags to smoke. Track that.

Every drag, light one of those bars up, starting from the tip, and when all fifteen are on, the thing shuts down for a few minutes. That’s what a cigarette is like. You know when you’re done.

Sex it up

Those bars are kind of bland. We can do better.

Make it a motherfucking dragon. In fact, that’s what this eCigarette is called. Here’s your sales pitch: “It’s a Motherfucking Dragon.”

Here’s your first commercial:

BOB: Hey Fred, what’s that you’re smoking?

FRED: Hey Bob! This here is a Motherfucking Dragon.

BOB: Holy shit, Fred. I’m not even gay, but I do believe I want to put your penis in my mouth.

FRED: That’s confusing, Bob, so I’m going to pretend you didn’t say it, but if you want to put something in your mouth, head down to your local drug store and pick up a Motherfucking Dragon.

BOB: I think I’ll do just that. Thanks, Fred!

FRED: Anytime, Bob. Give my best to the missus.

VOICEOVER: Motherfucking Dragon. Why the fuck don’t we already have your money?

You’re welcome. First person who makes this happen starts getting the annual three grand I spend on cigarettes as soon as I see Motherfucking Dragons on the shelves.

P.S. My Illustrator skills hit a wall pretty fast, but make those lights spiral around the cylinder or some crazy shit.

This is the first sign you see in Hell.

Hi there! You should totally go buy my book for the low low price of 6.73! It's like buying me a beer at an out-of-the-way dive bar in Brooklyn! Not in Manhattan. Manhattan prices are ridiculous, though there are a couple of decent Irish dives where you can snag a drink for five bucks. Otherwise, you're looking at a two or three book beer.