I love bongs. Theres something about the ritual of toking a bong that makes me feel content. Setting up that time of day... Getting some icecubes and cold water prepared... Breaking out that beautiful glass peice that just by looking at, I can already feel the tingle of glee. And then... Pouring the water and icecubes, hearing the soft gurgle and clink of glass. Packing the bowl with a small nug, big enough to get two massive hits from, but not enough to waste any excess smoke... Placing it in my lap... Putting the edge to my lips while I tenderly light the bowl...
Getting lost while staring down at that glowing ember, the constant repetetive bubbling sound... Pulling the bowl. That smooth filtered rip rushing straight to my lungs... Tilting back... My head... euphoric...
Blowing that sweet smoke out. And then doing it all over again.
Stumbling to my chair. The dreary foggyness of the oxygen deprivation slowly giving way to the mind blowing high. Climbing that latter of soothing joy...
Breakthrough... A soft giggle. There is no better feeling in this whole world. The peak.