Silently, mouth open, I watched the first triumphant steps of the Wacky-Wall-Walker as it made its unsteady way down the face of the mirror wall in the dining room. I was trying to not look at the back of my hand, so I focused on the blue goo-rubber spider, the cereal box toy that had an appeal that my mother just couldn't see. Out of the corner of my eye, I could still see the temporary tattoo (also from a cereal box) on the back of my hand and I hated it. It was Batman's eye, or something, rendered in a comic-book-style blue and yellow, and all I wanted was for that awful bruise to stop staring at me.
These, of course, are the thoughts you have when your heart is pounding and your head is spinning and different aromas of flavored tobaccos are filling your nostrils like a thousand ball-peen hammers slowly pounding your brain out to the rhythm of the newest Kama Sutra soundtrack. Or at least, this is what I was thinking about after I'd had three vodka cocktails and some strawberry-mint shisha in the hookah bar.
Eventually, I cried about the tattoo and Mom scrubbed it off with some rubbing alcohol (the cool burn of freedom!). A cool, sweet burn like the ice water that the veil-clad waitress brought to chase my vices.
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