Dear Stupid Smoking Fuck,
I don’t care if you smoke. I really don’t. The wonderful thing about personal freedom is that you can do whatever you want to your body, as long as it doesn’t infringe on anyone else’s happiness. But you infringed on mine today. Mine and everyone else’s.
I used to smoke, I know how intoxicating that buzz is. I remember the sweet simpleness of opening a new pack of cigarettes, tamping it off, peeling off the plastic, tearing off that little corner of foil to reveal 20 perfect opportunities for a break, 20 gentle white pillows of heady goodness. Even now I can remember the smell of fresh tobacco, clean paper, the cottony stomp of the filter. I remember lighting that first cigarette, the fah-LIK of the lighter, the small fire and crinkle of burnt pulp at the end, the inhale, the hold, the release.
I don’t mean to romanticize smoking. I’m not. I’m just telling you, I know what it’s like.
I also know every car has it’s own ashtray.
And that littering is against the law.
So this morning, when you were ahead of me at the light, and you flicked your still-burning cigarette butt out your car window and exhaled that last breath of gray air, I hated you.
Because you have an ashtray.
And the cigarette was still lit and dangerous.
And you threw garbage on my street.
You don’t know how close you came to getting a windowful of my face this morning, spewing vomitous derision upon you. You should count yourself lucky. You may not think this is a big deal, but it's people like you who should be sent to a far-away planet to muck it up, as a science experiment on How to Screw Up Your Planet. You don't care. You should. And I'd rather not have you on my planet.
But I have your licence plate number. And so does everyone who reads this blog. (See Title)
Next time? Next time I’m gonna get out of my car, flick that butt back in your window, and laugh my ass clean off as you self-immolate.
You Stupid Smoking Fuck.