Sarcasm, Meet Smoking

I love it when people smoke... especially for the sole purpose of looking "cool." There's just something... "cool"... about flaunting your drawn-out suicide... about letting your friends and family watch as you poison yourself. And the fact that you can't deal with day-to-day life without chemicals and nicotine makes you seem all the more amazing. "Look at her! Look at him!" the crowds will whisper. "See how they cope by escaping the stress we foolishly deal with on our own by altering the chemical balance of their brain. Why aren't we cool enough to do that?" 

My favorite part, though, I must admit, is being around these amazing people. You walk by them, and their poisonous exhalations engulf you, giving you a rare insight into their world of coolness. It surrounds you like a warm, smoky blanket, filling your eyes, nose, lungs. But I suppose I'm not cool enough to be accepted into this elite group; by the time I leave their presence, my eyes are watering, sinuses burning, and I'm just hacking away. I can't handle the awesomeness. But I suppose that's just the way it goes.

This overall aura of awesomeness rubs off on possessions, too. Their clothes, bags, cars... entire houses!... are permanently stamped with their signature. And, if you just so happen to borrow a sweatshirt from them, you will give off your own - slightly dampened, for it's only secondhand - aura of coolness. Lucky! Oh, I wish I had a boyfriend who smoked so his coolness would rub off on me!