nobody loves a smoker.

Come on, ladies, you know you’ve thought of it. You really need some cash, you’re too lazy to get another job, and you’ve got all these spare eggs up in the hizzy that you don’t really intend to use, at least for a few years. And there’s people willing to PAY YOU for them. People willing to PAY YOU for crap you DON’T NEED. That’s like, imagine if someone wanted to pay you five grand for that mountain bike you never use, or the pile of single socks in the corner of your bedroom that you’re keeping around JUST IN CASE one day you need them. It’s a phenomenal situation, really, and on a number of occasions (like YESTERDAY) I’ve been tempted to try.

I have a couple things going for me in the egg-donor arena: I’m college-educated, I’m 26, and I’m white. (dudes, I think it’s creepy too, but from what I hear the fact of the matter is that people pay more money for caucasian DNA.)

But I also have one big strike against me:


I’m a smoker.

I started smoking in high school, huddled behind the movie theater with some friends. I hated them that first time (doesn’t everyone?) and yet by the time I graduated I was scamming about a pack a week. I remember discovering the sublime perfection of a cigarette and a coffee on a summer night, and I remember how the first drag would make me dizzy and a little ill. Then I went to college, and everything went to the next level. Without giving too much away, it’s safe to say that I found a number of other substances that paired nicely with my nicotine, not the least of which was booze. My freshman-year roommate and I, blissed-out with freedom, would drink rum and chain smoke in our dorm room until the walls turned yellow and the windows fogged up. When I went home, my clothes reeked of stale Camels – the laundry room would stink for days after my arrival.

Most of my friends were smokers, for as the saying goes, smokers are more interesting people. (Or at least it seemed so at the time.) Our activities revolved around cigarettes: a cigarette between classes, the “after dinner” smoke, the cinematic post-coital nic fix. Then, of course, there were the packs upon packs we’d blow through at Phish shows and bars. When I graduated, my consumption hovered somewhere around a pack and a half a day, and god-DAMN I loved every one of those thirty-five smokes.

These days, that seems excessive. Without trying, I’ve cut down massively and now have maybe one or two a day (more on the weekends), but I still love smoking and don’t want to quit. These days it’s even more crucial – smoking gets you out of a crowded bar, smoking gets you out of an awkward conversaion. Smoking, for me, is a conversation item, since most people say I don’t “look like a smoker”, whatever that means.

It’s not ok to say that you smoke, or that you love smoking, and it’s also not ok to say that you’d happily inject hormones into your asscheeks for weeks on end just to harvest some eggs and make eight grand.

But I love cigarettes.

and, if the two weren’t mutually exclusive, I’d also donate eggs.

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