Author's Comments: I have no idea where or for what reason I wrote this.  Likely as part of an assignment for a class, but I felt it needed to be here because it really takes a gander, albeit a short one, inside who I am and who I once was.

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          My face flushed, I'm certain, with the Oedipal fury I could feel erupting within me, like some faraway Pacific island, suddenly bursting with the power of the earth. They were simple words, carrying little meaning in and of themselves, words that had any friend spoken would have received, at most, a lash of the sarcastic whip, or, at least, a laugh and a lash. Had they been uttered by a critic, perhaps a pshaw would have been in order, and a commentary on the critic's eloquence, or lack thereof. However, the remark was owned by neither friend or foe. I recall my mind stuttering for a response, one which evoke a realization of how much damage to my ego was done, but which would not bring about further repercussions. It had to be timed well, emphasized correctly, and be of the proper composition. Time, of course, had been lost in the initial confusion of searching for proper emphasis and composition, and, thus, composition and emphasis soon fell as well, as if by edict of some McCarthy-Era theory. My response isn't important, insomuch as it was irrelevant, futile, and lacking any sort of the imagination I try to pride myself on in my more prideful moments. However, there is one detail which I recall now, one which cannot, should not, be missed. I recall, as my mind was groping for words, that my hands were searching for something.
          It was a book.
          Sometimes, though, a cigar isn't just a cigar.