Skip to main content

Smoke This

I hate..hate...HATE walking through cigarette smoke. There is nothing more annoying to me than having that sickly smell just cling (and it does). I don't care if you smoke. I really don't (unless you're my kids...or someone in my family, then I care). But Mr. Joe Blow college call center jockey that works upstairs in my building-I don't care. I don't care if you kill yourself or take 12 minutes off of your life with every drag. Smoke Up Johnny.  But when your filthy habits affect me. I get annoyed. There is a designated smoking area in our building. USE IT. Standing in a pack in front of the building just because there happens to be an ashtray there, is not an option. The ashtray is there so you can extinguish any smoking materials before you enter the building. It is not a beacon of puffitude telling you it's OK to light up.
I will continue to bug the property manager about the situation and to obnoxiously cough as I walk through their haze. Ours is the only building in this complex that has an ashtray out front. I can only imagine how it looks to our customers to have the dregs out front killing themselves one drag at a time. And I only get annoyed.
If you smoke, I know you don't care. You think it's your right, blah blah...being discriminated against..blah blah.  Whatever. I don't care. I don't care if you run around naked and shout hosannas at the top of your lungs...until it affects me.  Then I care.
Because it's all about me.


Popular posts from this blog

Marriage Material??

I had a friend call me today, fuming. I consider myself a good listener on most days. Considering that I was out of town on a work trip and doing absolutely nothing in my hotel room, my listening game was on-point.

She recounted the exchange that sent her off. I will spare you some of the more personal details, but the gist was, at one point, the dude-bro she was talking to flat out told her that she wasn’t marriage material.

Torn between wanting to be a supportive friend and being completely gobsmacked, I felt her frustration. No. That’s not quite right. I didn’t feel the same frustration she felt. I’m approaching what some consider middle age. I’m white. I’m primarily interested in women. Oh, and I have a penis., I can never truly feel the same frustration she was feeling. Or an anger that comes from the same place her anger came from. No matter how in touch I am witn my feminine side (whatever the fuck that actually means).

Instead, the frustration and anger I was feeling w…

Post Con-Fusion

It's 5:40 AM on a Wednesday. I have been up for an hour. I have an outline for a work in progress that I intended to work on this morning. I was in the middle of a chapter that I started at lunch and had every intention of continuing this morning. But, much like me, it seems the characters wanted to sleep in today. They wanted to just hunker under the covers as the rain danced its hypnotic melody on my roof. The swoosh swoosh swoosh of the ceiling fan keeping time with the rest of the nocturnal orchestra.

So, I shifted gears. I am taking  a course on getting more words on the page. Something that I want to do need to do if I am to get all of these books that are floating around in my head out in to the world. It's not so much that I think the whole world will love and adore them, although I certainly hope that is the case. No, it's more the fact that it's getting crowded up there. I need to get these words on the page for my own sanity as much as anything else.


The Kindness of Strangers

This post is going to be a little bit all over the place. If you know me, you are probably used to that by now. If you don't know me, welcome. My name is Todd. I'll be your slightly insecure author and docent on this tour of randomness we call Todd's Mind.

I am going to get a little real, and probably a little raw here today. I would normally be terrified of that. Of exposing myself to the world at large. But in looking at the stats for this blog in the 22weeks or so since I've left Facebook, the reality, I'm exposing myself to about 10 of you. Less if some of you come back and re-read some of the posts. So...yeah. Here goes.

I can count on 1 finger the number of times including today where I have run out of gas. Not talking about pulling into the gas station on vapors, but actually having the car die and coast to a stop because that life-giving dead dinosaur juice was no longer in the tank.

One time.


It's my own fault. I don't like to admit when I&#…