So the other day…

I was trying to explain to my mother how smoking gives a person an artistic persona. How puffing harder than the magic dragon gives a person character and passes the prerequisite to become a successful artist. I’ve recently been mulling over the why’s to this conundrum, and have finally come to a conclusion. Smoking makes life hard. What better way to conjure up some soul-stirring lyrics along with your guitar strumming than choosing to live a struggle? Nobody enjoys being around you, whether it is the stench in your clothes or your grungy, miserable demeanor. For a starving artist, paying $5 per pack doesn’t allow the greens to be spent on nice material things. This is where the beatnik fashions arise, because the person willingly chooses to not be able to afford anything else. The very fact that smoking is dangerous for a person’s health just adds to the struggling, bad-to-the-bone appearance. Despite the overwhelming number of con’s that can be checked, smoking does come with a lonely pro. It may be vague, and only seen through the eyes of the beholder, but smoking has a magnetic romantic allure to it. Nobody can ignore the picturesque stereotype that accompanies a true artist. I always imagine a paintbrush in one hand and a cig in the next, or a guitar pick stuck in between two fingers neighboring a lighter. Or singing a couple bars right after a puff escaped from the same cavity.
Now realize, in no way, shape, or form do I condone smoking. I do not believe that smoking like a blazing prairie gives a person admirable qualities. I’m not gonna bump people up a couple notches on my “I-think-you’re-cool’ list if they smoke. I think that smoking is absolutely, indisputably, and irrevocably disgusting. And it makes your lungs black and your teeth yellow… gross.

But there is just something … mysterious … about the habit.