Today I had lunch with a friend. We were kicking around ideas for a writing project and had a lot to discuss, so after our meal of Chicken Pablono (which, by the way, was excellent) we moved our conversation to the lounge area to make room for those waiting for tables. Soon, the cigarette smell drifting from the nearby bar began to bother me even though I am a former tobacco chimney myself. In my heyday, I smoked 80 cigarettes a day. I'm a stereotypical ex-smoker. You know the type--those self-righteous “I quit, so why can’t you” jerks who whine about how bothersome cigarette smoke is to them. I cough, become hoarse and congested and wind up with a headache. Perhaps it's psychosomatic, but the symptoms are real.
Having quit some 24 years ago, it is hard to understand how people can begin, or choose to continue, to smoke in light of the overwhelming evidence of its health dangers that are so widely known today. I doubt that I've gotten off scott free. I'm sure I'll eventually pay a health price for all my former puffing.
I could have moved from the lounge, but I didn’t. My problem. So, this afternoon I came home, threw my clothes in the washer, jumped in the shower, washed my hair and thanked my stars that I am no longer burdened with the smelly, nasty, deadly habit.
They puff, with
Blackened bellows
Resentful, defensive
Waiting for a challenge
To their stupidity.
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