I write this article in the back row of class in the Mudd building. I've eaten my lunch and drunk my soda. I finished the crossword puzzle (hooray Monday!). I've crossed and uncrossed my legs enough times to sprain my ankles. The last piece of gum I chewed loosened a filling. And there's no way I'm going to start listening to the teacher. Man alive, could I use a cigarette!

When I was a first-year, there existed a culture of smoking at this place. You could walk through campus and not inhale a breath of fresh air, if that's what you wanted. You could bum a cigarette next to Lerner, or next to Pupin. It was about choices! Now this vaunted institution reeks of spring-the camaraderie is gone. Why, just the other day while I was smoking my third pack in front of Carman, a girl walked by and made a fake coughing sound. I made a gesture she didn't see, and told my friends all about it.

I can remember my first time like it was yesterday. It was a beautifully sunny day, full of promise. The kind of promise reserved for 8th grade lunch break, behind the baseball diamond. We crouched over fire, pioneers of stuttering breaths, shaking hands and scouting eyes. I sucked in, and suddenly there was a giant sauna in my head. My sandwich bag felt heavier and heavier; I sat down for a while and drank some mango juice. The bell rang. I stumbled into science class just as Mr. Binkley was passing out the frogs. The smell of intestines and ethanol traveled through my nostrils, where it met what was left of my new friend, Smoke. They introduced themselves, and I did the only thing I knew how: I puked all over my partner's forceps. We all have such heartwarming stories, and for this we are made into lepers.

Some say smoking is bad, even evil. They show you pictures of lungs, and tell you about dead people. They slap warnings on packs, in big letters. I'm not sure what they say, since I've never read them, but I'm sure it's rubbish. The great citizens of Smoker Nation need not be patronized. Like the Navajo Nation, we deserve respect. Sure, smoking isn't good for your "health," but behind every cloud of smoke there's a silver lining-the lining of relaxation and mild euphoria. And freedom.

You know that famous picture from the '60s, during the campus riots, of a student sitting in the president's chair, smoking a cigar? I don't recall exactly what the fuss was all about (as they say in Vietnam: "whatever")-what matters is that he was smoking, and he was happy. I encourage all of you to venture to the gym, and go to the basketball courts. Before the entrance you will see a portrait of an eminent man. He is impeccably dressed, regal in demeanor. His face speaks of great adventure and greater wisdom. He will peer at you through oil-based eyes, and you will know the deepest truths. That man is Harold F. McGuire, and he is holding a cigarette. The accompanying plaque describes him as "an architect in the broadest sense" with a "commitment ... to health and well-being." That is an inspiring man.

New York State law may prevent smoking in class, but, as President Bollinger always says, we must be our own Supreme Courts! I call upon each and every proud inhaler on this campus to make every class an exhibition of civil disobedience. Statistics making your eyes glaze over? Have a Marlboro. Bio exam not actually in English? Have a Dunhill International. GS student asking dumb questions about the Civil War? Have a Camel Light Turkish Blend. If you're just starting and aren't sure which blend to burn, don't be afraid to experiment. They are God's children, and his Tar-ness loves them all equally.

It is a dark day when Alexander Hamilton's almost-alma-mater chooses to lick the feet of politicians and doctors. Our teeth should lend us character, our throats ought to itch subtly, and our lungs must match our souls.