There is this young man I know.  I'm not related by blood, only by marriage.  I met him when he was sixteen turning seventeen and I thought his arrogance back then couldn't get any bigger.  It did.  He's twenty four now and has not progressed any further down the road to maturity than from where he stood when he was sixteen.

He smokes like a chimney and has for ten years.  Let me state that again.  He's twenty-four now and has chain smoked for ten years.  Who bouight him the cigareets?  His friends older brothers.  He'd steal them from his clueless mother.  Then he was able to buy them on his own.  Thank heavens he hadn't been caught with cigarettes before he became eligible to buy them on his own.  I'd hate to think he'd gotten into trouble over it.  Oh, wait.  He already is in trouble.  At least there's mulitple flags on the play.  His doctor has already diagnosed him with high blood pressure and the first signs of emphysema have shown up enough for him to be warned.  Did you catch the fact that this young man is only twenty-four years old?  Just turned.  Two weeks ago.  Oh, and he's not afraid.  "It takes years for that stuff to get really bad.  I'll quit before then."

I don't think he's read the reports.  There are numerous websites with the latest facts on smoking and its hazards.  And I know he can read.

He favors cigars when he needs that boost to his macho image.  Most of the time he smokes unfiltered cigarettes, the cheapest he can find although he likes Commander King and a friend sent him a carton of Black Death cigarettes.  Even the packaging was honest on those but the boy only laughed and thought they were "cool."

He smokes all the time.  Even in the shower.  Yes, its true and I don't know how he does it, but the proof is there.  Wet ashes in the tub, where the soap is supposed to sit, and there are burn marks bedextaritside the shampoo.  I guess he doesn't have the dexterity to shampoo and smoke.  Either way, you do not want to use the bathroom after he's been in there for a shower.

I wrote a poem about it to vent and I'd like to share it with you now.

Hotboxing in the Bathroom by womanNshadows. I take a bow and then recite:

Its wakey time for work today and the boy hated opening his eyes.

He reach to pull his boxers up because he'd bought the wrong .

He stumbled and grumbled and shuffled about, its time to cough and sneeze.

He's only been up a minute but already it's time to wheeze.

He scratches his boxers while searching for smokes, then lights the first one up.

With cancer stick stuck in the lip he's greets his mon with, "S'up?"

He puffs so hard its over and so he grabs the pack again.

Second, third, then fourth is smoked then fifth, seventh, ten.

As the smoke wafts through the air he sucks in it, coughs, chokes, and hacks.

Then sucks down one just more butt and curses the energy he lacks.

If kicking the habit is mentioned he gives shocked and deadly stares,

Then fkips you off and sends you off with a belch and a "don't care."

He heads off to the bathroom, shuts the door and lights another up one.

As more and more are smoked he finds his mind starts going numb.

His eyes doth burn as do his lungs, his heart pumps hard and fast.

His head feels light as his life slows down and most likely just won't last.

He's hotboxin' in the bathroom, where smoke casts its spell.

Its small and the shower hides his cough that sounds like a death knell.

Hotboxin' in the bathroom so he can make his life surreal.

So he can step outside numb enough to face the real deal.

His mother called and said she'd had to drive her son to the doctor's again.  He hasn't been feeling well.  His twenty-four year old blood pressure was sky high and his coughing is now considered chronic.

Ten years and counting is a lot of years of smoking.  I wonder how bad he has to feel before he'll quit before it "gets really bad."