my lungs or, how i stopped worrying and learned to love big tobacco

i hate not smoking. HATE IT.

and in that same short, damaged-lung breath, i hate big tobacco. i hate those fucking bastards. NOT because i didn't know what smoking does, what it causes, but because one would think that if you created a product that was close to impossible to quit, and you WANTED to keep these consumers, these money-spenders buying for as long as possible (read: keep them alive and spending money), you'd create a HEALTHY CIGARETTE. (an oxymoron, to be sure.)

i hate being in a bad mood. i hate being perpetually cranky and irritable and overly-sensitive.

i want to crusade against big tobacco. i want to air films of people in the last throes of emphysema. i want everyone to see what i saw in the eyes of my grandfather when he, even with an oxygen mask on his face, was not able to breathe in any of the air that was directly given to him.

but that still wouldn't work. why? because i was there, and i saw it. and even after his funeral eight months later, i stepped out to have a cigarette. which makes me a bastard.

so i try to think of quitting smoking this way: in my very small way, i'm sticking it to the man everyday that i don't buy a pack of cigarettes. and even though i'm gaining weight and that is SERIOUSLY fucking with my head, i'm still sticking it to the man.

so man, if you are reading this, screw you. you're not getting my money anymore.