Column: Quitters never win

Chacha Murdick

The Maroon

Chacha Murdick

CHACHA MURDICK

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Everybody knows there are “designated smoking areas” around campus because whenever a smoker smokes in non-designated areas, passersby mutter, “Don’t they know there are designated smoking areas?” As if that’s going to make these smokers suddenly care. I sympathize with both sides of this passive-aggressive war.

It has been eleven days since my last cigarette.

At first I resolved to avoid all smokers’ benches. What a fool I was for assuming I could so easily circumvent temptation! As a reformed smoker, I know better than anybody that smoking is a pleasure best enjoyed where it is least permitted, like on the sidewalk between the Danna Center and Bobet Hall. It’s right next to a designated smoking area, yet totally outside of it, like a cat crapping next to the litter box. It’s the perfect place to blow smoke into the faces of non-smokers while dryly slurring, “Sucks to your assmar,” and then blowing more smoke into their faces when they “don’t get” your “Lord of the Flies” reference because they dropped their inhaler mid-asthma attack.

It’s also fun to smoke while leaning against buildings, wearing a pencil skirt and pretending you’re Winona Ryder. “Isn’t that a fire hazard?” the opposition snivels, but Winona thinks fire is, like, whatever.

Smoking indoors is cool. The Buddig stairwell. Smoking in the boys’ room like you’re in a Motley Crue video (if you’re a girl and you can pull this off, you break gender barriers and are therefore double- cool).

The opposition has struck back, however, stripping restaurants of their smoking sections. They’re even banning smoke in bars, the very Meccas of our habit.

Obviously there are health concerns at the heart of these changes. I sympathize: I myself quit because of health reasons. However, what the opposition doesn’t understand is the cultural importance of tobacco. The cigarette break is a cornerstone of our social world. Smoking also marks important rites of passage. Bachelor parties, for example, smoke cigars at strip clubs to commemorate man’s passage into the next stage of life. For the smoker, these gestures are culturally essential, as meaningful as Sunday mass. Of course anyone whose culture is under attack would react with disdain!

I understand both sides. However, I am also suffering nicotine withdrawals. I therefore proclaim my stance as such: I hate all of you. If I have to hear your complaints or smell your delicious smoke, then I will find a way to make myself equally obnoxious.

If you annoy me, I will spit Nicorette gum in your hair whenever/wherever I please-even indoors. If you have long hair, avoid me in the elevator. We have made our opinions quite clear.

Now it’s on.

Chacha Murdick is an English writing senior and can be reached at [email protected] knows there are “designated smoking areas” around campus because whenever a smoker smokes in non-designated areas, passersby mutter, “Don’t they know there are designated smoking areas?” As if that’s going to make these smokers suddenly care. I sympathize with both sides of this passive-aggressive war.

It has been eleven days since my last cigarette.

At first I resolved to avoid all smokers’ benches. What a fool I was for assuming I could so easily circumvent temptation! As a reformed smoker, I know better than anybody that smoking is a pleasure best enjoyed where it is least permitted, like on the sidewalk between the Danna Center and Bobet Hall. It’s right next to a designated smoking area, yet totally outside of it, like a cat crapping next to the litter box. It’s the perfect place to blow smoke into the faces of non-smokers while dryly slurring, “Sucks to your assmar,” and then blowing more smoke into their faces when they “don’t get” your “Lord of the Flies” reference because they dropped their inhaler mid-asthma attack.

It’s also fun to smoke while leaning against buildings, wearing a pencil skirt and pretending you’re Winona Ryder. “Isn’t that a fire hazard?” the opposition snivels, but Winona thinks fire is, like, whatever.

Smoking indoors is cool. The Buddig stairwell. Smoking in the boys’ room like you’re in a Motley Crue video (if you’re a girl and you can pull this off, you break gender barriers and are therefore double- cool).

The opposition has struck back, however, stripping restaurants of their smoking sections. They’re even banning smoke in bars, the very Meccas of our habit.

Obviously there are health concerns at the heart of these changes. I sympathize: I myself quit because of health reasons. However, what the opposition doesn’t understand is the cultural importance of tobacco. The cigarette break is a cornerstone of our social world. Smoking also marks important rites of passage. Bachelor parties, for example, smoke cigars at strip clubs to commemorate man’s passage into the next stage of life. For the smoker, these gestures are culturally essential, as meaningful as Sunday mass. Of course anyone whose culture is under attack would react with disdain!

I understand both sides. However, I am also suffering nicotine withdrawals. I therefore proclaim my stance as such: I hate all of you. If I have to hear your complaints or smell your delicious smoke, then I will find a way to make myself equally obnoxious.

If you annoy me, I will spit Nicorette gum in your hair whenever/wherever I please-even indoors. If you have long hair, avoid me in the elevator. We have made our opinions quite clear.

Now it’s on.

Chacha Murdick is an English writing senior and can be reached at [email protected]

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