Too Pretty To Smoke
I have an extensive listing of things that are bad for me that I continue to do. I drink, I have promiscuous sex, I refuse to get a real job and I drive a car that’s brake system is the equivalent of Fred Flintstone stopping a car with his feet. I take great pride in living a high-risk lifestyle.
But above all, I smoke. I’m not one of those pussy, “social smokers’. You know, those hipster assholes who steal all your cigarettes when you’re out drinking together? I am a hardcore, fully addicted smoker. To give you an example, one time, I was involved in a fire. My old roommate had accidentally lit her bed on fire (sexy, right?) with a candle while she was sleeping.
As we raced out the doors, sprinklers coming on and the hallways filling with acrid smoke, I could only think of one thing.
“Shit, I forgot my cigarettes in my room.”
I was able to bum one from a fireman, but my point here is, that even engulfed in a full wall of smoke, all I could think about was inhaling more.
So yeah, I’m an addict.
So why do all you anti-smoking assholes out there think you’re the ones who are going to get through to me? If I can smoke in a three-alarm fire, chances are your little speech about the dangers of emphysema are going in one ear and out the other.
The other day, I was at Gas Station, my favorite place on earth. I was buying my standard pack of 305 menthols from my friendly Indian cashier, who I refer to as Mr. Indian John Travolta (because he looks like an Indian John Travolta), when some overweight, redneck asshole comes popping out of the bathroom, dragging an 18 pack of beer with him.
He sees the cigarettes in my hand. “You know those things are bad for you?”
This time, instead of just rolling my eyes, I responded.
“Holy shit, you’re fucking kidding me! I had no idea. See my doctor told me they were ideal for curing ‘the vapors’ and ‘female hysteria’. Why would he lie to me? They should put a warning on these things or something! <flips over pack in my hands with wide-eyed idiot look> Oh, wait, here’s one, right from the Surgeon General. Funny I’ve never noticed it before. <eyes man suspiciously> Are you the surgeon general? If so, thank you., so much. You really changed my life.”
This is not a stupid man. He clearly knew I was making fun of him. So he responded. “Ok, I’m sorry. You’re just too pretty to smoke.”
Guys, I know you think you’re flirting when you say stuff like this, but honestly, it‘s statements like this that make me want to dip my goddamn face in battery acid. Because when you say this, you’re saying one of two things.
One, being pretty makes me stupider than normal people and I need to be told how to make my life decisions. Or two, being pretty makes me a more valuable breeding commodity that needs to be extended as long as possible despite its self-destructive tendencies.
Neither of those opinions are valid. First off, I’m pretty fucking smart. I might not be Steven Hawking, but I can personally guarantee you that the phrase ‘too pretty to smoke’ doesn’t come off as flirtation to smart girls. It comes off as condescending.
Second, in case you’re eyeing me up for an egg candidate, being pretty doesn’t make me a good breeder. I’m thirty-four and I like to drink while occasionally dabbling in recreational drug use. There’s a very good chance that any eggs coming out of this uterus will be filled with all kinds of brain damage.
But hey, at least they’ll be pretty.
So after the dude told me I was too ‘pretty to smoke’ I took the kid gloves off.
“Well, you’re too fat to pee standing up, but you don’t see me kicking in the bathroom stall and warning you of the dangers of lumbar herniation while you’re draining the lizard, now do you?”
With that, the bathroom man gave Mr. Indian John Travolta one of those ‘this bitch is crazy’ looks and walked out of the store.
Look, people, stop this. Stop getting into other people’s faces about the personal decisions they make with their bodies. You don’t see me wandering around restaurants, telling fat people to lay off the red meat and get a chicken salad, do you? No, because what you do with yourself is up to you.
You don’t know me and you don’t know my life. For all you know, I might not be that interested in living that long anyway. My grandfather smoked every day of his adult life before he died of cancer at 69.
To me, that’s just about perfect. Long enough to live a full life, and not so long that I become this needy, dependent thing, just waiting to die. I have no desire to live to 100. I’d rather cut this all off at the peak and move on to the next life.
“Too pretty to smoke’ is not a flirtation. It’s condescending, rude and makes me want to stab you in the eye.
I smoke because I’m addicted and I don’t need you reminding me that ‘smoking is bad for you’. I’m not fucking stupid. I’m addicted and every time I try to quit, some idiot comes up and reminds me of why it would be better to die young anyway.
We all make bad choices. Chances are, if you’re reading this now, you’re addicted to some drug or another; you’re in a relationship that just isn’t right for you, or a job you hate. Maybe you weigh a little too much or maybe you focus on your weight too much. We all have our vices. It’s up to us to decide how much we allow those vices to control our lives.
Right now, me and smoking, we’re at a happy medium. So stop with the convenience store sermons, because cigarettes have been part of my life for far longer than you, and neither of us gives a shit about your opinions.
