It has come to my attention that there is no single English word to describe the feeling you get with the taste of the first puff of a lit Marlboro 27 on a 33-degree morning patio in your bathrobe and satin pajamas, freshly stoned, immediately after eating a slice of warm 7-11 pizza. I’m naming it after my dog. It’s now the feeling of Seneca. There’s a now-offensive phrase to describe this state in the 1916 Webster’s that there’s no modern equivalent of without invariably evoking colorful stereotypes.

They should sell words for specific thing, like they do stars or parcels of land in Scotland. It would be a nightmare if anyone took it seriously.