You’re outside at 3 in the morning, smoking, because your friend’s landlord won’t let him smoke in his apartment. You’ve had a bit to drink. You aren’t fall down drunk, but you know it’s naïve and silly to call this buzzed. And you are outside smoking, because if your friends apartment smells like smoke the landlord will make him buy a new ceiling or something. It’s cold, but you know you’d be a lot colder if you weren’t, let’s face it, drunk. You are outside of a small party but you’ve walked far enough away to no longer hear the music. All you hear is the hum of something somewhere. That inescapable hum of the twenty first century. You are smoking outside because the inside has shunned you. You harbor no resentments though, because it’s only temporary. The party, the drunk, the landlord; it’s all temporary. And it’s not that cold anyway. You should feel at least a little lonely, but you don’t. You feel like a member of something. You feel included, because at 3 in the morning everyone is asleep, and anyone that is awake is drunk. You hear someone rev their, or presumably their, car’s engine and hear it peel out and shoot away and you know that whoever made that sound is drunk. They are driving an insane engine propelled instrument at an insane speed, completely intoxicated. And you are outside smoking, sitting on one of those green electrical boxes with the sticker of the drawing of the man being shocked and the WARNING. Both you and the driver are living life on the edge. And outside smoking at 3 in the morning, is the only prerequisite to be in this, the world’s most inclusive and important club of all time. You finish your clove cigarette, lick your lips a little and head back inside. “Is it cold out there man?” Nah, it’s just right.