Entry #5 or Snus And That Second Pornstar Martini

Hey reader. I want to try something. Sort of like a writing challenge for myself.

I believe that we are as important as lost pebbles on the pavement. I believe that there is nothing more than this exact moment. No grand ending, no grand purpose. We are stardust and stardust we will be again when our time is done. The only difference between us and a rabbit is that our brains stopped needing to think about food and started to think about themselves instead. And I take comfort in all this nothingness. It allows me to focus on and appreciate the little moments and feelings that make this meaningless existence fun. Not worthy, simply fun. While you're here and I'm here, let's just have a good time. What else is there to do?

So the new writing challenge I am taking on is the following: I want to write about those same moments and feelings in a way that you, reader, can step into my shoes (with socks of course), close your eyes, and feel them like you live in the tip of my fingers, like you are a piece of dead skin on my lips or the goose bumps on the back of my arms. I want you to feel them viscerally.

Let's start.

There is this cocktail bar two streets away from my apartment. This bar tries to emulate an old-timey speakeasy. To get in, you have to ring a tiny doorbell hidden close to the door and wait for the host to open for you. Inside, all the waiters are dressed up nicely to match the Art Deco-style decoration. The place is made up of booths and intimate dark red velvet corners. The ceilings are covered in ancient-looking curtains, with smoky yellow lights hanging from them. The walls are covered in old-style advertising for classic spirit brands, a few shelves deck the place with a random assortment of 50-year-old knickknacks you would find in any flea market, and decadent lampshades stick out of the wall inquisitively, as if to keep an eye on all the secret lovers that hide in those dark red velvet corners.

I don't love this bar. It's quite expensive, to be honest. But they do make killer cocktails. What happens is, when my friends and I are lost on what to do, or when I have an indecisive date who doesn't know where to take me, I go there.

But recently, I've started going there on my own. I order two drinks and leave right after. And that's the feeling I want you to feel today.

I will need you to follow a few rules though. Firstly, every time I hit Enter, I want you to close your eyes (no peeking!) and picture what I just wrote. Once you're done, you can open them again to follow the next sentence. Rinse, repeat. Secondly, I urge you to deviate from the details. I believe that you will only be able to feel anything viscerally if you grab on to the first thought you have when you start to imagine the scenario I will be describing. Only by relating my story to one that makes sense in your world will it be able to come alive for you. And only like that will you be able to be the dead skin on my lips, and all the other stuff too. Shall we?

The bar.

Have you got it? Does it live two streets away from you? It needs to be close enough for you to be able to walk to it, and walk back home. It's highly improbable that you live two streets away from a bar that is exactly as the one I described above. My bar is real. And you're not my neighbour. Or are you, reader? You also need to like this bar, just enough to go there, but not enough to LOVE it. Pick a meh place. A meh place is somewhere you would be fine to go, but not overly excited for it. A place good enough for a Wednesday night but definitely not the place where you would celebrate your birthday. And this bar should also be somewhat cosy. At least cosy enough that you can lean back comfortably, and if you're wearing a skirt, it won't be a whole thing with the chairs.

So now you walk down the stairs of your building, shoes clanking down each step and echoing throughout the empty space. You exit out onto the street and take yourself to that bar. You take around 5 minutes to get there. Up your street, cross the corner, and down to that bar.

It's 8 pm. You had a light dinner before you left the apartment. You're wearing jeans, dark blue, dark wash. You're wearing a black long-sleeve cardigan with matching black moccasins. Those slip-on ones. You are not going to impress anyone intentionally. Your goal is just to go sit somewhere else that's not your couch or your bed. Do you have clothes like these? That make you feel good, comfortable, but also low-key stylish? Quietly fashionable, as if you are restraining yourself not to overwhelm others with your IT factor.

You have nothing on your mind during that 5-minute walk. And you arrive. You ring the small doorbell and the host seats you in an empty side room. You're there alone and you're wondering for how long you'll keep having that pleasure.

Your eyes wander around. Observe their posters. These posters will be your new friends. And those knickknacks are watching you. Are they watching you yet?

The waiter comes and places one coaster in front of you, a tiny sample of peanuts and an even tinnier bowl of salted popcorn. You don't look at the menu. You've been here often enough to know what you want. What do you want? What do you like? Sweet or sour? Strong or soft? You order your drink; mine will be a pornstar martini.

As you wait for your order, you lean back in your chair. You have to lean back enough to feel yourself melt into it. Can you do that? There's nameless smooth jazz playing in the background, softly, so as not to disturb you and the posters and the knickknacks. And as you assimilate the music notes that sound against that velvety space, your body decompresses, your spine crunches down to an arch, and you finally relax. Your mind goes back to the nothing it was during your walk over there.

Your order arrives. Gosh, the smile on your face. Thank you. The waiter sets it down on your coaster and lets you be. A pornstar martini comes in those skinny martini glasses. It's made up of vodka and passion fruit, a bit of vanilla, and it usually comes with a shot glass of Prosecco or Champagne (in big-time fancyland) on the side. It's sweet, with a kick. It's light. And again, it comes in those skinny martini glasses that make you feel like you're James Bond and Carrie Bradshaw all together.

That first sip, ohhhh refreshing, tasty, skinny. Rush down your arched spine. When you lean back now, it will hit you extra hard. You're there alone. You didn't bring a book, your crossword puzzles, and you're a twenty-something, so you don't have games on your phone. This makes you sip the drink faster than you normally would. It tastes amazing. Every sip is delicious and comforting. It creates this imaginary barrier against all the thoughts we think bystanders have about us when we do things alone. You do know no one cares, right reader?

You sip so fast, you're already ordering the next one. You pick around that small bowl of salted popcorn, pop a few into your mouth and chew slowly when you realize you're almost finished and your second drink hasn't arrived. How salty are they?

But now you're prepared. When that second hit arrives, you're gonna be classy about it. You're gonna cross your legs, sit up straight, and press your back against the back of the chair. At least for the first few sips. Pace yourself, babes. Most importantly, you're gonna pull out that snus.

Snus or a cigarette, or your vape, or a piece of gum, or more popcorn. Something that hits you slightly harder than the cocktail. Something that will enable you to breathe deeper than usual. You will need a deeper breath to move forward. For me, what does the trick nowadays is a good ol' snus. Like 6 mg of nicotine, or a bit more. I picked up the habit when I lived in Sweden (name drop). Extremely predictably, obviously.

He, almighty, arrives with the goods. It's 9 pm about now. A few more people walked in. And unlike the knickknacks, they are not watching you. The same waiter sets down the same drink before you. Déjà vu. Although, this time it feels much better. The music is rolling around inside your bones while the alcohol swims in your blood. Hope you're feeling it.

You sip that second one. Cheeky smile again. Magicccccc. Now get that snus. Slide it under your upper lip, where it likes to sleep. Feel it burning your gum. Even your teeth feel tingly. Breathe in deeply. Hold, 4, 3, 2, 1. Out, 4, 3, 2, 1. Uncross your legs, lean back as you let your head kiss the wall softly. Slouch down and ruin your posture. Take that skinny glass in your hand and sip it again. Try to do it through the side of your mouth, opposite to where the snus is doing its thing.

Did your muscles relax? Did your head get a bit woozy? Did the drink taste stronger? How did your toes feel in your shoes? And what about the tops of your ears?

You can stop smiling. You do look a bit crazy. Let it all take its course now. Ride the wave. Levitate. Look at yourself from above. You're here, with me, in my skin, experiencing this fragment of my life. This is not a life-changing occasion, a moment to be remembered, a story to tell. Or is it?

I don't believe in God, but I do believe in smiling, in looking crazy, in talking to posters, and praying to waiters. Patience, because nothing matters. Pleasure, because nothing lasts. Let go. Dance. Feel.

Now finish your drink. Get up and let go of this moment. Pay your waiter. Smile at him and wish him a good night. That part is for free. Walk home with no thoughts in your head yet again. Do tell me, how does each step feel? I want to walk them too. What else is there to do?