(no subject)
We tried to be nice to you nonsmokers. We tried. You wanted your own sections in restaurants; we gave that to you. You wanted the airplanes? We gave you the whole goddamned plane. Are you happy now? I'd like an explanation about that one, folks, because I'll guarantee you that if the plane is going down the first announcement you're going to hear is: "Folks, this is your captain speaking. Light 'em up because we're goin' down. Okay? I've got a carton of Camel unfiltereds. I'll see ya on the ground. Take it easy."
And you're always doing your nonsmoking math, aren't you? Always figuring out the future. "Okay. I'm thirty-four. If I quit smoking now, I'll live to be. . . about seventy. . . Okay, I'm thirty-seven. . . if I quit now I'll live to be. . ." Forget it. Forget it all. Stop trying to seal your fate. You quit. And then you start jogging and stairing and lifting and eating high fiber and drinking carrot juice and planning for the future. HEY! Two words: Jim Fixx. Remember Jim Fixx? The jogging guru? Wrote a jogging book, did a jogging video and dropped dead of a massive heart attack. When? When he was jogging, that's when. What do you want to bet it was two smokers who found the body the next morning? "Hey. That's Jim Fixx, isn't it? What a tragedy. C'mon. Let's go buy some cigarettes."
It's always the nonsmoking, sprout-eating yogurt-shake-sucking high-fiber eaters who get run over by a bus driven by a fat guy who smokes three packs a day. "Sorry, Officer. Didn't even see him. I was too busy smoking."
In other news:
Dear Guilford College,
you are on my shitlist
Love,
Caitlin