I will make a confession to you: cigarette smoke brings out the worst in me. If you happen to be loitering next to a doorway, as it is the middle of winter and you are clearly hoping to get as close as possible to a heat source, I perversely wish to make you, the smoker, feel as guilty as possible. I cough. I send pointed looks. It is almost as if my evil counterpart, whose existence remains fortunately hidden most of the time, makes an appearance any time I am forced to inhale any of your acrid smoke.