Another thing about rolling my own cigarettes was the stains.
Having no filters, these cowboy-style cigs left my index and f.u. finger stained yellow/gold/orange. Very difficult to wash off. And of course, with the stain is the smell. Even the romance of relating to the protagonist in The Wall, by way of mental audio of the voice of Roger Waters' Dylanesque talk-singing the line, "I've got nicotine stains on my fingers," from Nobody Home didn't make me feel any better about it.
I worked tending a shop, mostly by myself, on a college campus. I would smoke the ol' handrolled shag outside on my break. Awhile after returning, a customer came in, and was apparently prompted to comment by the overwhelming stench that clung and emitted from my body, hair and clothing.
He sniffed the air, wrinkled his brow and asked via statement of assumption, "They allow you to smoke in here?"
I reeked, and made my surroundings reek as well, depite that I smoked outside the building. Disgusted as I was with myself, many such humiliations couldn't stop me.
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