It's only fitting that I should enjoy a good clove cigarette. You should, too.
I hate the smell, and I despise the notion of being labeled a smoker, but there's something to be said about the commitment and dedication of people that take time out of their hectic lives to take a puff and watch all the non-smokers sprint past.
I used to be one of those sober idiots, bent upon slaving over paper after paper and pouring over books (and, admittedly, I still do this), but I have been known to stop and literally smell the flowers these days. And nicotine, too.
I'm not really a chain smoker. I don't smoke often, and this recent infatuation period has lasted about four packs now, drawn out into a slow but passionate love affair with the slim and slender things.
But they're good. Man, they're good. I like Dharjum Black cloves, and they have this minimalist black wrapper that seals the deal. When you open the pack, they are neatly at attention, waiting for you to just pick them up and show them love.
I swear they're great for Tufts students, considering pets are not allowed on campus. They're the most devoted of pets and eager to see you when you bring them out into the fresh air.
Cloves are beautiful little creatures, because they don't smell like man's best friend. Once that baby hits your hand, all you can inhale is the sweet, spicy smell of cinnamon and, well... cloves.
They crackle when they burn, especially when exposed to crisp fall air around campus. They are over-priced at the convenience stores around here, too - a little like Tufts' tuition. See? Cloves and I - and you - were meant to be together.
Oh, and another thing - and perhaps the most important of all - they provide reprieve. Like I said, in order to smoke one of the beauts, you need about seven minutes, as I have been informed by a reputable and rather dedicated clove source.
So what else could you do in seven minutes?
Gnaw on a pencil in Tisch. Stress about when you're going to get a chance to grab some food between classes. Watch the other 50 percent of campus freak out over a somewhat reputable guest speaker (whose speech will be conveniently summarized in the Daily the next day, anyway. You know this.) Go flip s--- because that paper you're about to turn in may or may not create some impossible scenario where your entire future hinges on the preposition you used in the last sentence of the fifth paragraph on nuclear proliferation in developing nations. Or, step outside the petty collegiate bubble and change perspective.
I'm not a smoker, like I said, but I have been known to partake in the experience of smoking on occasion. I even still remember the first puff I ever smoked: It was a late night after the typical Thursday night. (Read: packed parties where nothing happened, and the entire freshman class stood in clumps on the sidewalks waiting for something of merit to happen. Or for someone to spontaneously vomit. Or for a fight to happen. Or, if you're lucky, maybe both. Simultaneously.)
I was with my friend who decided it was his mission in life to corrupt me, and thus proceeded to teach me the intricacies of extracting as much cancer-causing carcinogens in one puff as possible.
Being the overeager and enthusiastic type, I took the challenge with great ambition and came to a realization that 20 years of life had yet to teach me: Life, like a cigarette, should be taken with a slow and ardent passion, a balance between rabid addiction and total apathy. Also, like life, it eventually gets extinguished.
Unlike cigarettes, we can't go out and buy another pack. Too bad.
I have to say one thing, though: I hate the aftermath of having a cigarette. The contemptuous scent of tobacco following you, taunting you for non-conformity (or conformity, depending upon how you look at it). I always enjoy a good clove while I'm having one, but they tend to cling to you like a love-crazed teenage boy.
Or like a puppy dog, which is why, like I said earlier, clove cigarettes make a great pet.
Either way, cloves remind me of the love-hate relationship we have with this thing called a life, and the very fact that a little piece of paper filled with tobacco and other delightful ingredients can spur such revelations makes me quite the addict.
Or a fan, at the very least.
Stephanie Brown is a junior majoring in international relations.
