“Cigarettes are my food,” said Frank Zappa. And then he died of testicular cancer. Which came as no surprise to anyone who’d heard him wanking in recording studios for thirty years, but still. Anyone who names his kid Moon Unit is plainly asking for his balls to rot off. Because there is such a thing as karma. Welcome to the concept of universal payback.
I quit smoking when I was thirty. There then followed three years of medical holocaust. I had a cold for a year, I developed a terminal allergy to housedust, my mouthwas ravaged by some hideous infection that stopped me eating anything harder than soup, I collapsed and was kept chemically unconscious by pain medication for a mouth, my circulatory system tried to kill my brain… And this, understand, is from NOT smoking.
I cannot deny my genetics. I cannot fight that which was hard-wired into me by my father’s tea-coloured, nicotine-riddled seed. You go ahead and pretend that car fumes are magic stardust and the greatest threat to life on earth is cigarette smoke. But the ineluctable, medical truth of the matter is that if I do not smoke I will DIE.
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