I’ve never been a smoker. Although I think it looks cool when really hot people congregate outside trendy clubs and damn the man for banning smoking indoors while they enjoy their menthols and ultra lights, I think it looks an equal amount of gross when ugly people do it. I hate the idea of vices, too, (though I’m clearly addicted to sugar and sunshine) so the people standing twenty feet from our office building on their cigarette breaks in the dead of winter are really unattractive and pathetic-seeming to me. I hate the way smoke smells on people’s clothing, I hate that anyone’s willing to pay $9 per pack for something they don’t even enjoy but have to have, and I really hate the “Cigarettes take ____ years off my life? Well, they’re the shitty years, anyway” argument. I won an award in 6th grade for my outstanding essay on why I was drug-free for our D.A.R.E. program, although naturally I was too cool to show up to receive it, much like the kids who actually did smoke in junior high.
In fact, when there was the possibility that I’d have to smoke as part of my background role in a forthcoming Meryl Streep film (I know I’m a bit of a showoff, but you’re lucky I don’t mention that every day), Boyfriend Kamran had to take me outside his apartment building and show me the hippest ways to light and hold the things. Even under his instruction, I mostly ended up looking like this:
Please note that this is NOT outside Kamran’s apartment. I don’t want you thinking he lives under an overpass.
Still, for some reason, I loooooooooooooooove the way smoke smells on a man’s breath. Please explain.