For almost 10 years years of my life (16 to 26, to be exact) I was a pack a day -- sometimes 2 pack a day -- smoker. (I actually started smoking on a regular basis with the help of the woman I babysat for who 'lovingly' paid me in cartons of du Maurier Lights.)
After 15+ attempts to quit, I finally said goodbye to Mr. Ciggy, but not a day goes by that I don't remember my coffee and cigarette days. Case in point: As I was looking for a handbag earlier today, I came across this silver Whiting and Davis Cigarette Case with matching lighter cover. *Hmph* Then I see the cigarette hairpiece (above) from the Bland Spring '09 collection. *Argh*
No less than 10 minutes had gone by when I came across this cigarette butt and mirror sculpture entitled 'The Abyss' (above) by artist Damien Hirst (which, subsequently, was just featured in a Sotheby's auction). And, while my dream would be to never again desire these nasty little cancer sticks, my brain has forever been imprinted with the desire. *sigh* What I really want to know is, why can't I just be happy with something fashionably dangerous instead?