Some people accuse me of having no impulse control, or too little. It's possible, either way. My guess though is that my impulse control is good.
Sure, I drinks a bit, and I smoke five or six cigarettes a day. These are mistakes. But I've also been accused of having merely insufficient impulse control. There are those who feel like I have actually suffered from a certain limited self-control, a tragic condition that has allowed me to abuse certain things indefinitely without actually dying.
All of these things are possible. You, they, and we should all know, however, that if the truth were known, I have exercised such fabulous control, like total fighter pilot control, over my baser impulses, and that I have, without doubt, already lengthened my life by twenty-five years at least. I would, in fact, right now, if I had my druthers, and did not have the benefit of this self-control, proceed to a northern border and move to a beautiful, but backward country that is full of poor, beautiful women and where every little local market sells whatever would happen to bring in a couple of bucks, without artificial restraints imposed by some legislature or other. And I would purchase those things, and partake of them. That would be a party, big time, at least until it killed me.
But aren't lifestyle deaths our birthright? Every one of us? It's all a trade off: pick the chances that you think are worth taking; do the things that you think are worth the chances taken.
As the great man said: I'm the one that's got to die when it's time for me to die. (J.H., died at twenty-eight-years-old.)