Mine's only partly damaged

I used to secretly enjoy the smell of Peter Stuyvesant secondhand cigarette smoke and I would inhale hard whenever I sit close to my chimney of a father. He doesn’t know that. On our various road trips together, he would puff away while I sip a bottle of Cola and lose myself in every passing tree, and of course the deliciousness of being enveloped in the acrid and pungent sweetness of his smoke.

I also missed New Year and fireworks. I loved the smell of fireworks. I loved to chase and breathe in its residue, the white trail left behind when you doodle nonsensical nothingness in the air.

I am the real connoisseur. I delve deep into the secrets of enjoyment. What is the meaning of beauty when all that you can see is the façade?



Now I have difficulty understanding math.