Cigarettes and Snowflakes
Nothing feels like smoking a cigarette out in the sub-freezing cold. When I inhaled the cold smoke, it felt like someone punching me in the chest, the way I imagine it would feel if Death herself reached in and grabbed my heart, closing her cold fingers around it. I wanted to pass out, and I swear I could see stars. Not that I'm really a smoker, but it just seemed like the thing to do after a long day hunched over a dead, rotting body and after traipsing through the bitter cold. I swear I've never met so many smokers in my life until I got to med school, which I feel is one of the great ironies of life. You'd think they'd want to stop, since we're required to know in disgusting detail what smoking eventually does to your body. (No, I don't agree with their propagandistic stance, but I didn't want to have to search for a better site. I do, however, agree that smoking is bad for you.) I mean, wouldn't it be hard to take a physician seriously if you knew he or she was slowly killing themself? Ah well. It's probably better not to know your physician's personal habits anyway. If you knew half the things I knew about doctors in general, you'd probably never trust another doctor again, and you'd want to avoid hospitals like the plague (or like nosocomial infections). Then again, not all of us are f-cked up, necessarily. I hope.
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