Wicked Excuse Train

Oftentimes when i'm on a cigarette break at work (which tends to be happening more often than not) mothers will walk by with their small children. Cute little toddlers scuffling about with their newfound upright-movement; little red-headed baby girls with eyes the size of dinner plates riding joyously (and safely) in the spot for them on the shopping cart, glancing at me and giggling like they are having the time of their lives.

Sometimes it makes me smile, other times (read: way more times) i just get creeped-out.

Its when i see their little eyes focus in on the cigarette in my hand, or the smoke i'm exhaling through my stained-yellow teeth i feel a tremendous guilt. Look at this child, all curious and amazed by the smoke rising from my Peter Jackson king-sized Virginia fag.

Baby wants to join me in Cancer (formerly Flavour) country. Baby wants a smoke.

I start to feel sick inside knowing that everything these babies are influenced by for their next few years on this planet is possibly vitally important to the development of certain character traits (flaws) in the future.

Perhaps when they reach an age where the dirty kid from around the way offers him/her a cigarette, and maybe something, a force so great and instinctual that it transcends peer-pressure, subconsciously makes them have that puff. Eventually they end up smoking 2 packs a day through a hole in their neck at age 17.

ANYWAYS...When i snap out of this (as i have just demonstrated) i realize that i'm not influencing these children to smoke. They are looking at the all-encompassing example of what they by absolutely no means want to grow up to be. A notion so fundamentally prominent that most children are subconsciously and completely aware of it early on in the second trimester. Therefore, my smoking is helping babies.

p.