I hate cigarettes. Really, I do. I hate the smell of them, I hate the burning ashy sensation in my throat and nose whenever they're waved around nearby, and I hate that smokers are magically always able to stay upwind. I hate that smoking culture is so into littering, stamping out butts every place people gather, all over doorways and bus stops. (The one time in my life I got pulled into smoking was up in the tundra, where we stamped our butts out on our boots and packed them out so we could throw them away in Baker Lake six weeks and several hundred miles later). I hate watching people destroy their lungs, and it's really hard for me to watch some of my relatives risk having strokes or losing their eyesight for a puff. But the funny thing I've been realizing is that I really like smokers. And so I find when I need to wolf down garlic stir fry in between jobs that I do it out with the smokers, acrid tobacco swirling around and settling on my fresh ham and provolone sandwich.
So why are smokers such desirable companionship, despite their filthy habits? I think it's because in the sheltered doorways of the non-smoking buildings in this frosty state (the weather and the people) there's a thawing effect to the glowing red butts amongst those huddled outside sucking smoke into their chapped red cheeks. I think it's because you're there with something habitual to do, leaving so much social and intellectual capacity idle, that smokers can't help but talk to each other to alleviate boredom. And since you never know who'll be there depending on how your nic-fits coincide, maybe smoking just helps develop social skills. Or maybe they all just pretend to like me because they think someday I might be the only one with a lighter or a spare fag.
The funny thing is while I hate cigarettes, I do like cigars... perhaps I should take up smoking those, where you can get away with not inhaling. Because damnit, I really need a ridiculous affectation of one kind or another.
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