Thursday, 30 December 2010
Smokes are for Losers
Smoke alarms have been silently sounding-off. The sour smell of stale tobacco on sweater sleeves. The hacking cough that wakes me every morning. The one that did it was seeing the terror with which Battlecat (see blog entry entitled Kitty Porn) recoiled from any cigarette smoke that wafted his way. It seemed like the smart Darwinian option. I read a self-help-quit-smoking-in-ten-easy-steps book, which transpired to be one of the most depressingly dull, badly written books I have ever read (I’m not quite sure what I was expecting). The success in the book’s technique is essentially inciting a feeling of such resentment for having endured such tedium for two hundred pages that you feel obliged to at least have a stab. To put your money (/no cigarettes) where your mouth is.
I think just as effective would be to read a book that you may actually enjoy (may I recommend Roberto Bolaño’s ‘The Savage Detectives’) and just glance at these key bullet points. It stinks. Your clothes and car will stink. Your breath will stink. Girls won’t want to kiss you. If they do they will probably be thinking ‘this guy stinks’. It is anti-social. I work in a nice warm studio. We light candles and record pop songs and hang out and it’s fucking great. Then every half an hour I stand in the rain and the wind alone for ten minutes (American Spirits last longer than Marlboro’s). It’s banned from anywhere fun. The days of dancing (probably to At The Drive-in) in a club with a cigarette in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other are sadly no more. It’s absurdly expensive. It’s so easy and very sensible for the government to tax as much as they want on something that costs them so much in hospital bills… which brings me to the last point. It kills you. It fucking kills you. It gives you cancer and then it fucking kills you. KILLS YOU. KILLS YOU!! KILLS YOU FUCKING DEAD WITH CANCER!!
I began to convince myself that smoking somehow defined me. That it was part of my personal brand. That it sent out the right ‘I don’t give a fuck’ messages. Well I guess I do give a fuck, and the older I get, the more the image of what it is to be a smoker morphs into something I don’t want to be. Whereas I saw myself as James Dean or Hunter S. Thompson the reality is nearer to that frail, yellow-fingered, stinking old geezer coughing up rubbery pellets of phlegm, standing in the rain outside the pub and that is something I never want to be. I enjoyED smoking but I also enjoy smelling nice, my friends, my money and being alive!