Monday, May 19, 2008

On Weed.

It's the opinion of this author that marijuana is pointless.

It illicits nothing more than giddiness, hunger, and a proclivity to think oneself off into long, meandering tangents. There isn't really any reason to maintain use beyond high school. By eighteen, the average youth should have enjoyed it for a few years, learned how to sleep comfortably on a hardwood floor, grown a short-lived appreciation for Dark Side of the Moon, then moved on to the next level of drug, or walked away from the scene, unphased.

I chose the latter (for the most part). However, on occasion the temptation rears itself. Sometimes, the situation forces itself on you.

Last summer, while attending a work event at a nearby bar slash restaurant slash shithole, I grew acquainted with the bartender servicing our party. By the end of the night, her and I sat in a corner of the rooftop. She was gorgeous. And easily the worst bartender, ever. Two days later, I'm at her house.

I found out halfway through the first date that she was only nineteen. Reason would have normally convinced me to cash out, right then and there. But having just turned (a graceful) twenty-six, I was eager to spit in the face of rational adult choice.

Her place was like any of the drab co-ed dwellings where stoners hang posters, and art majors sit, ruminating on all the art they could make, if only . . .

She introduced me to the circle, each of whom broke away from Dancing with the Stars to give a nod when their name was called, only to resume watching, immediately. Dressed in a manner conventional for the second date, and the fact that I was bringing up the average age of the room up by at least three years, I felt awkward and out of place. (It's a feeling known only by Jeff Goldblum whenever he chooses to go anywhere.) Within minutes of taking a seat on any of the seven couches, a pipe and a bong both crossed my path.

The back corner of the local record store. Clothing shops with scents that carry. Unusual book stores. Bad tattoo shops. They all have that glass case in the corner where one can purchase pieces of piping and other accouterments. And behind the clerk, stand cylinders that reach the ceiling. Their size and price work to intimidate even the most dedicated of stoners. Who buys these? Easy. These kids. At 18 and 19, respectively, they've developed four+ years of tolerance. They've reached the point were being as high as possible, brings only a slight relax to the shoulders and sway.

It'd been some time since I touched the green. Now I have to keep up with the 9-year ago versions of my friends. To turn it down, is to appear square. Instead, I'll keep up, and hope that the conversation shifts towards things that took place in the late 1990's.

Her and I planned on going to an iced-cream shoppe on the west side, ten-minutes out of the way between her place and mine. Thanks to below your peer-pressure, it would be nightfall before I could even find the street it was on.

Chicago is all parallel street parking all the time. The only spot I could find within walking distance was alongside a sidewalk cafe. For those of you that would like to experience the sensation that is parallel parking while high, all you need to do is drain your power steering fluid and close one-eye. It took twenty-minutes to station my vehicle as close to the curb as possible. A three-foot gap filled the space between the tires and the sidewalk. When we stepped from the Hydra (1 of 3, ever), all the al fresco diners stared at us in disbelief. Maybe it was because my car came up on the sidewalk several times during my numerous attempts. Maybe I drew their attention as I cursed aloud, pounding on the steering wheel. Or, I was just being paranoid.

Be cool. Be cool. Maintain. Maintain. You're in total control. You're doing fine. A bang-up job, all-around. That's the stream of consciousness for this moment, as I place our order with the soda-jerk. He looks at us and laughs. "Man, you guys is twisted!"

We took our dessert outside. Sitting on the curb, I let each spoonful of ice cream melt in my mouth before swallowing it back. She lay on the pavement, her head in my lap. I placed my cup aside and leaned in, kissing her brow.

Moments later, still under the effects, we were dry humping on the sidewalk. I think her shirt was pulled up. I can't remember.

I forgot, was this entry supposed to be anti-drug, or pro?

Eh, whatevs. I'm going outside.

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