Dear Ann Landers,
his letter is based strictly on my own feelings about cigarettes, after twenty-four years of smoking. I'm ashamed to admit I'm still at it. I doubt that my words will have the slightest impact on the heavily ad-dicted. For me, all the words in the world will not take the place of that first cigarette in the morning. I'd rather address myself to your readers who are seventeen, as I once was, with a set of healthy lungs, white teeth, clean blood coursing through my veins-and in my pocket my first package of cigarettes. How was I to know that twenty-four years later I'd be so hooked that any thought of quitting would be out of the question? How could I know, at sev-enteen, that I'd be waking up each morning to a mouth that tastes like the bottom of a bird cage? How could I know my teeth would be stained dark brown and my chest would feel as if it were filled with cement dust? All I knew was that smoking was the cool thing to do. It made me feel grown up. Although I have never seen my lungs, I know how they must look. My uncle, who is a surgeon, once showed me some "before" and "after" pictures. "Sit in on an autopsy one of these days," he said. "You'll see that the non- smoker's lungs are a bright pink. When I open the chest cavity of a smoker, I can at once tell about his habit, because the entire respiratory system is nearly black, depending on how long he has smoked." (Mine must look like lumps of coal.) Still I continue the filthy habit, going half-crazy on mornings when I'm out of cigarettes. I go digging through ashtrays and wastebaskets for a long butt to satisfy my craving. I pace the floor like a hungry lion, waiting for the store to open. Then I hurry, unshaven, and hand over another fifty-five cents for a package of suicide. With that first puff I realize nothing about it tastes good. Those ads are a lot of malarkey. But the people who sell cigarettes couldn't care less about me. I'm hooked and they love it. They run those sexy ads, telling you to "C'mon." But don't be fooled, Seventeen, it's not a bandwagon you'll be hop-ping on. It's a hearse. If I could write cigarette ads, I'd show you pictures of myself, coughing till the tears come, gargling away a rotten taste that keeps returning, spending money I can't afford-stupid me, sucking on a little white, stupid pacifier. Then I'd show you pictures of the clothes I've burned, and the people I've offended with my breath, my smoke, my ashes, my matches and my butts. This is me, Seventeen, a rasping, spitting, foggy-brained addict who has let the habit consume me, a "can't quitter" who creates his own air pollution, who prefers carbon monoxide to oxygen, whose sinuses are constantly drain-ing. Me, with the yellow fingers and the foul breath, smoking more and en-joying it less-telling you that I wish to God someone had wised me up when I was seventeen, a damned fool who hates himself

dear fool,
Your signature reveals the reason you continue that filthy, ex-pensive, offensive and destructive habit. Get some professional help. When you like yourself better, you might decide you're worth saving. Good luck, junkie. DAUGHTER SMOKES, MOTHER FUMES