Really, this is what it's all about: D/s. The cigarette, which could kill you, is D, and you are s. Get used to it. You have no control. You should read what I've read on the tobacco document website. They know what they're doing. They know the words and the music.
Point in fact: "Golden Lights. You really know you're smoking."
"You really know you're smoking" is a compliment, A, and a statement of fact, B. You want the tar, in you, burning, soaking, controlling. You don't want to quit. No sane smoker wants to quit. What we want it to be is the Cigarette Mommy and the willing taught smokerchild. We obey Mommy. Mommy smokes. Look at the the white pool of tar in her mouth. You want to swim in it, be it, hold the cigarette nipple in your mouth and suck it.
Let's talk about death. What is to death, to me? It is the big orgasm, the reward for the investment of time of the beautiful smoke rings, streams, and french inhales. I cough: death is coming. Literally.
We attract others who smoke, like fireflies. I have not only persuaded non-smoking women to smoke, I made them realize they want to smoke. I open the door, and they walk in. Risk assessment/management.
Marlene Dietrich: 90.
Bette Davis: 81.
They loved every single Lucky and Chesterfield and Philip Morris Commander they could get their hands on.
I will post an image, Vesperae, of some Benson and Hedges ads that never saw the light of day. For you. Because you get it. You want to die. Here's your engraved invitation.
For people who like to smoke and die...