I HAVE A SECRET.

I love the designated smoking sections on campus.

It isn̢۪t even about being a smoker for me. Mostly, I just enjoy the sense of security these tiny pockets on campus offer.

Before I go on, I recognize the risks of second-hand smoke. This article is not about my own naiveté.

I am not endorsing smoking. I don̢۪t want anyone to think I want to make it look cool.

On the contrary, I would like non-smokers to stay away from my new circle of friends.

In my three years at Fresno State, I’ve learned that there is more to this whole “learning� thing than a redundancy of historical facts and upper-division science nonsense.

You have to learn to be comfortable with the identity you have cultivated.

For the longest time I wasn̢۪t, and to some degree, never will be.

At my most awkward, I found myself gravitating towards these smoking sections and here̢۪s why: these are the most accepting people in the world.

Smoking tends to make a person a social pariah; more often than not, he or she is bombarded with flurries of faux-coughing fits to prove by “wiser� non-smokers just how dangerous their lifestyle is.

We get it. You think it̢۪s gross. Fine. Go elsewhere. Jerks.

We̢۪ve all read the labels on the boxes and in the advertisements. We all know what is in them.

Yet smokers smoke anyway, and that willingness to overlook something potentially unhealthy is what makes them less judgmental towards those of us who put equally unhealthy things into our bodies and into our environments.

For instance, I had a croissant last Tuesday for breakfast. And a latte.

I argue that one toxin is just as bad as another, yet my smoker friends don̢۪t mind that I̢۪m eating the equivalent to a stick of butter in each delicious pastry bite.

My personal favorite though: monster, lifted trucks (most frequently seen in Clovis) that get terrible gas mileage and cause yucky pollution.

Maybe less severe, but I am hard pressed to find someone willing to argue that the life choice to drive a vehicle that damages the environment is a better alternative for the collective health of everybody.

Smog is smog, folks.

And as a very clever smoker said to me the other day, after those trucks eat away at our ozone layer, the only people who will survive are cockroaches and smokers, because they are already accustomed to ingesting bad air.

Touché, I think.

It concerns me that my smoking friends will face premature aging and more noticeable wrinkles. But I also know that this is their choice, and while I can hope for the best, I ultimately trust them to do what they feel they ought to.

Just as I will indulge in hydrogenated oils in the form of French pastries, so too will my new friends and smoking strangers that I chance to meet, keep enjoying their little habit.

I don̢۪t mind it actually. I much rather prefer it to the hustle and bustle of the student union.

At least I can hear these people articulate their words.

It̢۪s difficult to support a community of friends that gather together to put not-so-safe chemicals into their bodies without sounding like a raging hypocrite.

And I probably will, if you̢۪re even still reading.

Yet I will continue to contend that the pros outweigh the cons, which these new friends, in spite of whatever vice they wear on their sleeves, are still worth more to me than my own health, which as you can imagine, is questionable to begin with.

The next time you̢۪re feeling particularly guilty for ordering Wendy̢۪s for lunch, hop on over any number of the designated benches.

The people there really won̢۪t care.

Support groups come in all sizes and habits, and what is bad for some, others are willing to overlook.

Consider that maybe you aren̢۪t alone in your vice, and suddenly, the world seems like a nicer, wheezier place.