Smoke yourself to death.

Smoke, smoke, smoke. Smoke, smoke, smoke. Smoke, smoke, smoke. Smoke yourself to death.

This is what the strange, 150-year-old man chanted at me as I tried to buy a package of cigarettes this afternoon. I wondered why.

Smoke, smoke, smoke.

Was it meant to be a sarcastic condemnation of smoking? Was the repitition meant to emphasise the way we, as smokers, smoke cigarette after cigarette, never finding ourselves satisfied?

Smoke, smoke, smoke.

Or was her, worse yet, attempting to place a voodoo curse on me? Was he implying that I wouldn't live to see the end of this package? Or have I, now that I've entertained such an idea, set the wheels of fate in motion myself with the power of positive thinking?

Smoke, smoke, smoke.

Maybe he was just insane.

I don't know. It was weird. I'm not sure what his motivation was -- it wasn't as if I had done anything to annoy him. I hadn't bumped into him or tried to cut him off in line. In fact, he wasn't even behind me in line, he was in front of me -- his shopping was finished, and yet he hung around for awhile, listening to me order the package of cigarettes, just so he could chant at me:

Smoke, smoke, smoke.

Freaky.

I know I'm quitting (I'm refusing to say "Trying to quit," as that seems somehow less dedicated, though I suppose my dedication is already in question by my decision to buy a package of cigarettes) but fuck it for today. Needed one, broke down because, hey, maybe my critics are right and I'm not ready to quit yet.

Fuckers. I hate it when my critics are right.

Smoke yourself to death.