J
Jean Staffen
Guest
Ain't it the livin' truth.
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Dead People Smoke Camels
Quit smoking the EZ way! Pop this magic-bullet drug,
ignore your real issues. God bless America
By Mark Morford
SF Gate Columnist
3-16-5
Oh, my freaking God, but I loved smoking.
Loved it like a slab of chocolate-covered puppy dogs and I loved the whole
gorgeous damnable ritual of the thing, the oral fixation and the regular
smoke breaks with co-workers and the cigs n' coffee and the cigs n' wine and
the cigs n' sex and I had myself not one but three different all-American
all-metal all-sexy Zippo lighters the famous click/snap sounds and toxic
butane scents of which I found intoxicating and soulful and I miss it all
terribly.
But then again, I absolutely loathed how smoking made me feel, just
afterward, the tightness of chest and shortness of breath and the wheezing,
the nasty aftertaste and the phlegm and the tormented lung cilia, the
constant stupid cravings and the ridiculous expense. Not to mention how it
made my fingers reek and my clothes reek and my teeth yellow and my
girlfriend cringe when she kissed me and of course all the filthy ashtrays
and stale butts and the whole noxious karmic low-vibration
poison-for-the-flesh thing.
There was no pill. There was no nicotine patch or nicotine gum or
nicotine-filled syringe to be administered at regular intervals like heroin.
A little self-examination, a lot of self-awareness, a tiny shred of
self-disgust, all pointed to one wake-up call that finally reached deep into
my core and came back out and said, calmly, obviously, Enough already --
this just isn't worth it ....
http://sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/g/a/2005/03/11/notes031105.DTL&nl=f
ix)
-------------------------------------------
Dead People Smoke Camels
Quit smoking the EZ way! Pop this magic-bullet drug,
ignore your real issues. God bless America
By Mark Morford
SF Gate Columnist
3-16-5
Oh, my freaking God, but I loved smoking.
Loved it like a slab of chocolate-covered puppy dogs and I loved the whole
gorgeous damnable ritual of the thing, the oral fixation and the regular
smoke breaks with co-workers and the cigs n' coffee and the cigs n' wine and
the cigs n' sex and I had myself not one but three different all-American
all-metal all-sexy Zippo lighters the famous click/snap sounds and toxic
butane scents of which I found intoxicating and soulful and I miss it all
terribly.
But then again, I absolutely loathed how smoking made me feel, just
afterward, the tightness of chest and shortness of breath and the wheezing,
the nasty aftertaste and the phlegm and the tormented lung cilia, the
constant stupid cravings and the ridiculous expense. Not to mention how it
made my fingers reek and my clothes reek and my teeth yellow and my
girlfriend cringe when she kissed me and of course all the filthy ashtrays
and stale butts and the whole noxious karmic low-vibration
poison-for-the-flesh thing.
There was no pill. There was no nicotine patch or nicotine gum or
nicotine-filled syringe to be administered at regular intervals like heroin.
A little self-examination, a lot of self-awareness, a tiny shred of
self-disgust, all pointed to one wake-up call that finally reached deep into
my core and came back out and said, calmly, obviously, Enough already --
this just isn't worth it ....
http://sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/g/a/2005/03/11/notes031105.DTL&nl=f
ix)