So I'm sorting through a stack of old photos, right? And there are two old photos of a young woman in the stack. In one of the photos, the young lady is blurry and appears to be yawning or yelling. In the other, she is lounging with a cigarette between her fingers. Somebody says, "Don't use the one where she's smoking that cigarette."
And I say, "But the other one is out of focus."
And somebody else says, "People don't like women who smoke."
And I reply, "I like women who smoke. It shows they're not afraid of dying."
And everybody just looks at me. (Like I'm talking about Amy Winehouse, who is killing herself with crack cocaine, and may be dead by the time you finish reading this sentence.) (Or George Carlin, who has died, and his soul has gone to a garage in Buffalo. R.I.P., dude.) (Or the late Cyd Charisse, who brightened the silver screen.) (It's like National Death Week in America. That sounds like the title of a future blog post. Don't steal it. Okay?)
In any case, I obviously have no point here. Just a lot of parenthetical phrases. And fragments.
Anyway, here is Princess Nicotine (1909).
