Letters to iconic old men

With an estimated 43 million smokers left in the US, it shows the Surgeon General has a cushy salary without much leverage, or that free market capitalism is as polite a fiction as socialism; more than this, juxtaposes itself badly. Government moralizes and rages over dried tobacco, but legislators refuse to criminalize nicotine, then we spend millions interdicting marijuana. Unlike you, real Nimoy, I do not advise cessation. Cold turkey is crueler than the addiction.

Addictions seem to be long form terminal illnessses, and I only quit due to inadvertently setting my hair on fire, cooking a portion of my back, scarring my shoulder. We share the same disease in COPD, however. Your stage at 82 years is nearly mine some 30 odd years your junior. Your tweets surprise me, like instant oatmeal. Why this is I don't know-- or I suspected portraying Spock made you insane, and you ramble like a sweet old fiddle, but that is 82. 

I'm a bitch, to say the least, not that admitting this to a character actor who fed my youth is a deliberate attempt to be unkind-- merely a wall. My grandfathers are dead, but the simplest of them lived to 88. Celebs with grandchildren ignore bitches, not that this is relevant while I wearily plod the keyboard after profiling your appearance in wheelchair for my a la carte aggregate. Kimmy my kitty puked twice in the last 24 hours and I hope it is a hairball regurgitation. She seems fine, but I worry. I don't mind aggregating so much. Journalism fuels motivation, but I am a good writer and want to work for a better company. Difficult affair with all my disadvantages. Maybe loneliness isn't it. Grasping at the relevance of your past limelight? "I have no regrets." That was your line with Brent Spiner. (I always forget his last name doesn't double consonant on the n.) Two automaton fencing, but Data was nothing like a real android, and this is somewhat aggravating. Your talent imprinted better, if this softball accolade is something of a kindness from a sister raspy voice, a fan of Trek from a distance. Trekkies are frightening. The role playing nearly religious fervor is a bit fucked up. I went to one convention with a black blind man who had glaucoma. Never again. Your bread and butter, the fans who lose themselves over the voyages of the Enterprise. Patrick Stewart was my fuckable. No one else did it for me. I envy his wives and respect the authority he projects and couldn't handle access to him. I'd flush and need to borrow your oxygen, raving maniac for a Shakespearean sugar daddy. Now I'm being facetious while we both die from vice and unintended consequences. I missed access to your 66 Deathwatch when I still had Netflix. Amazon doesn't list it. May have to settle for YouTube.

Affection, yes, I have that. I miss Peter Falk, but prefer suffocation to advanced dementia. My mother laughed at you and Shatner on the bus in the first movie. Small things like that make moments. Good luck to you. Best I can do in lieu of my cynicism. Dare I have the nerve to advise you? Die well, and do not allow your spouse to go the unseemly route of Chaz Ebert, with her video of Roger's last months.