Hey, Guy Walking In Front Of Me!
Hey. Back here. Hi! How’s it going? Good? Good. That’s an awfully pretty sweatband you’re wearing. Looks well-loved. Fuchsia is your colour. Brings out your eyes.
Anyway, I have a question for you; do you have a minute? Great. I was wondering if you noticed that you were billowing smoke out of your face hole like an industrial exhaust system? And that cloud of poison was hitting me right in the face? And I probably have lung cancer and emphysema and permanent smokers cough, thanks to you? And I’ve been trying to pass you for the last block and a half but you’re ducking and weaving and I’m not really looking to get tackled this morning? And I’ve been purposely coughing loud enough for you to hear me? Did you notice that? ‘Cause all that is happening just two feet behind you.
Wait, I have another question. You know that butt you flicked onto the road a while back there? Did you know that that is called “littering”? Littering is sort of frowned upon these days, plus you passed a garbage can at literally the exact same time that you dropped the butt. Literally. Could you not have just snuffed out the cigarette and dropped it in the can? That way you wouldn’t have forced me to bore laser holes into the back of your head with my eyes.
Wait, I have one more question. What is the appeal to smoking, anyway? I mean, I totally get that you’re all chained to your addiction and powerless to your cravings. I get that. I feel the same way about refined sugar and carbohydrates. But I’ve been walking behind you for a few minutes here and I’ve inhaled a significant amount of your cigarette, second-hand, and I feel like the inside of my throat doused itself with gasoline, said a prayer, and lit itself on fire. And then just when its flesh began to pucker and blister, it took its sharpened fingernails and started peeling the flesh away from the sub-dermis. And then when all the delicate sub-dermis was exposed, it took some malt vinegar and sea salt and began marinading itself for a future backyard barbeque. In other words, it hurts.
I don’t get that part. I don’t get how, after your first cigarette ever, when you were a wee sweatband wearing chap, experimenting in rebellion with your friends, why did you think a second cigarette would be a good and welcome idea? Did the first inhale not make you say “Whoa. That sucked. I’ll not do that again.”? No? Huh. It should have.
Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that, despite wearing a smashing aerobic-chic forehead accessory, you’re pretty much ruining my entire day just by being you. I’m not telling you to quit smoking; I don’t know you well enough to invest that much interest. You can decide for yourself whether you want to die a slow and painful death all for the sake of a disgusting and expensive habit. That’s your life-plan to make, not mine. All I’m asking is that if you’re going to smoke, please just be aware of those around you. You’re expelling toxic chemicals directly into my face and it’s unavoidable.
Yes, smoking is your right and the government has made it so that the only place you’re legally allowed to smoke is outside and in your own home. But the fact of the matter is, and there’s no way you can deny me this, is that smoking kills. And not just you, but those who inhale your off-gassing. So basically you’re killing me right now. Killing me dead. I should have you arrested for attempted murder, but I won’t because I’m just trying to get to my car and also because I think this conversation has gotten a little off topic and out of hand.
Anyway, I’m just going to walk past you and get on home. You have yourself a nice day. Remember – smoking kills. Use a garbage can. Sweatbands were never meant for outerwear.