Since high school, I have smoked off and on.  Typically, I will get stressed at work, or perhaps I will be out having cordials with my fellow raconteurs at the salon and I will pick up a pack.  Over the next two weeks, I’ll chip away at it until I am convinced that I have finally hooked myself, and continue smoking for about a month or so until I become completely disgusted with cigarettes, and won’t have another for six months.  My one and only experience with dip ended like a scene from Requiem for a Dream, and I’ve never really had any desire to revisit it.  And traditional chewing tobacco has always been rendered null and void by memories of my toothless Okie grandfather, sitting in his armchair with a pouch of Levi Garrett and the saliva-encrusted creamed corn can he used for a spittoon; a tangible, living cautionary tale warning me less about the effects of chaw and more about becoming a terrifying, mumbling hillbilly. Continue Reading »