Right next to where I work (which isn’t a locked treatment facility) there’s a nail joint. Not the place you’re thinking of, not a highfalutin manicure/pedicure spa, the other type of nail joint. The one that spews acrylic fumes out on to the sidewalk, where everyone who works inside is wearing dust masks when they damn well should be wearing gas masks [and I’m the guy who knows, having done some pretty intensive and extensive sculpting work with Styrofoam and acetone (nail polish remover)]. What I like about the place, what piques my interest, is that every time I’ve seen one of these chemical-breathing-nail-sculpting ladies taking a break, they go outside for some fresh air and a cigarette. A CIGARETTE. During their 10-15 minutes to breathe relatively fresh air, they’re just sucking down more fumes, different fumes, albeit safer fumes. That’s what I love. Also, I’m amazed their clothing doesn’t immolate when they light up. That’s all.

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