WTF, Chicago?

Hey y'all! What can I say - my "tomorrow" isn't in the same time-frame as yours. We'll get back to the Christmas thing soon (now that it's after). But I gotta get this off my chest...and yes, that pun is entirely intended. You see - oh god, how can I admit such a shameful, dirty, stinky, politically incorrect secret - wait...that's how I roll: I AM A SMOKER. OF CIGARETTES. (insert gasps here) and hey! I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU THINK!
Now, I'm a considerate smoker. I don't smoke except in designated areas - hell, I don't even smoke in my own house. I don't smoke around non-smokers, co-workers, children, or the neighbor's dog. He sneezes. I also know that cigarettes are nasty, they make my hair smell like an ashtray and will shave some 5-odd years off my natural lifespan if I don't die of lung cancer first. There is no acceptable excuse to continue this disgusting, self-destructive habit, even if it's harder to kick than heroin (yeah, google it). I will tell you that I don't drink, do drugs, and haven't been laid in four years. C'mon, people. Let me have something besides blogging!
Anyhoo. I've put up with my smoking freedom taken away piece by piece. I have had total strangers (and my boss) tell me in this condescending, pitying, hah I'm so much better than you voice, that "You really should try to quit, dear. Those things will kill you. You know I'm only telling you this because I care about you." Really? A: you don't even know me, and B: it's none of your business since I'm not blowing smoke in your face and C: do I look like I'm stupid enough to not know about the dangers? Well, maybe I do. Whatever. But I have to take this crap because people "care about me". Puuhhleezze. These are the same caring people who wouldn't dare tell someone they need to lose, oh, say 50 pounds or that their hair color makes them look like they washed it in an unflushed toilet. THAT's not PC. Oh no! It's okay to make us smokers feel mortified, unclean and disgusting. Am I projecting? Could be. Perhaps there's a non-smoker in me after all....naaahhh.
So last time I had a lay-over at O'Hare Aiport, the most frustrating airport in the world, I'm looking for the smoking lounge. The last refuge for lung polluting low-lifes. It was there six months ago. It's gone now. I ask some offical-looking dude who informs me they removed smoking lounges from all Illinois airports, and I would have to go outside to smoke. WHAT? I just spent 30 minutes running from one concourse to another with my carry-on bags that had I had carefully packed with all my 3-ounce toiletries in their own itty-bitty sandwich bags, and I would now have to run back to the baggage claim area, step 40 feet away from the building, indulge my one and only habit, wait in the security line another 40 minutes and get back to my gate? Hokay. Worth it, but aggravating as hell.
You know what, though? On the way back, I noticed 7 fast-food joints and three bars along one concourse. So should I be a nice person and tell the lard-ass in the seat next to me, whose love-handles are hanging halfway over my lap that she really should lose weight because I care about her and am worried that her cholestrol habit is costing billions in obesity-related health care? Or the guy who just tripped over his Bali loafers and exhaled a stale alcohol "'scuze me" into my face that I'm concerned that he will likely get off the flight, eventually find his car and crash into a minivan filled with preschoolers? Noooo....that wouldn't be nice. So as always, thanks for listening. I'm gonna go get me a Marlboro to smoke in my 15degree garage and not hurt anyone but myself. Oh, and don't worry - lung cancer patients die really fast, so don't lose sleep over your increasing insurance premiums. K?
Mu, out.