You stink, yo.
Granted, I engage in a lot of behaviors that aren’t necessarily in the best interest of my health, so I’m not going to go on here about the inherent dangers of cigarettes. You know that already. They print it nice and neatly on the side of that box. You grew up with D.A.R.E., so cigarette dangers are nothing compared to all of that Say No To Drugs stuff you got shoved down your throat. 
I will, however, tell you that you stink. Your clothes. Your hair. Your skin. Your breath. Everything you own, know and love stanks. A woman walked passed me on the bus today and I new she was a smoker. I can get in an elevator and know that the person who was just in there before me was a smoker. I guess you all are used to it, though.
I grew up with smokers. My grandmom and mom both smoked. Marlboro Red and Newport cigarettes were staples. Ashtrays everywhere. I used to run to the store for loosies (remember when kids could do that?) and light the cigs on the stove for ’em. I’d sit in the car or a closed room while someone puffed away. That was back when nearly every place allowed smoking, particularly clubs. I guess I dealt with it then. I think that now that we have so much NON-smoking space and I do not live with smokers, my lungs and my nose have gotten used to fresh air (and by fresh I mean the normal city smells – car exhaust, hot ass sewer, pissy subway stations, smog and old garbage, ahhh). The smoking stench just sticks out now.
The worst is spotting someone fly and then spotting their cigarette. Damn. How could we kiss? How could I hug him or be in the same room for too long?
No amount of incense, perfume, deodorant, gum, or hairspray is going to fool me, alright?
Yall stink, yo.
bourgie, interrupted 