Power smoking Marlboro Black 100s and talking about how much I enjoy strong cigarettes! The first drag is a promise kept. I slide the Marlboro Black 100 from the pack, a perfect, long cylinder of anticipation. The flick of my lighter, the initial hiss of the paper catching it’s a ritual that centers me. Then I draw that smoke deep into my lungs, and the world just… feels like paradise. It’s not a gentle buzz; it’s a statement. That bold, heavy taste hits the back of my throat, a familiar, welcome burn. This is what a cigarette is supposed to be. No subtlety, no apologies. It’s a rush that starts in my chest and radiates out, a wave of calm focus washing over the static of the day. People talk about strength like it’s a bad thing, something to be wary of. They don’t get it. I don’t just like strong cigarettes—I crave them. I need that robust, almost spicy kick that lets me know I’m alive. Let’s be honest, it’s an addiction. I know it is. My body reminds me if it’s been too long, a low-level hum of anxiety that only this specific ritual can quiet. But I’ve made peace with that. In a world full of weak compromises, this is one vice I chose, one I genuinely, deeply enjoy. That moment, just me and the smoke, the rich scent filling the air, the weight of the filter between my fingers… it’s my time. It’s strength I can taste, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
