Empty heads are not lonely

I don't know how to classify my relationship with pot. It's very see-no-evil-speak-no-evil-turn-a-blind-eye-no-skin-off-my-teeth kind of whatever...whatever.





In the interest of full disclosure, I can assure you that this post is a 100% smoke-free flight.

Back to the issue at hand...

I like to smoke pot. Some days, I even love it. It takes me out of myself and into myself. It makes me nostalgic. It helps me sleep. And fuck! If you think you appreciate cheese now, just wait 'til you find yourself thumbing bleary-eyed through a Nigella Lawson cookbook. It's like God never made anything as soul-crushingly orgasmic as zook with cheddar.

It makes me feel good. It's one of the few things with which I have absolutely no qualms about doing alone. In fact, I PREFER it alone...lost in my thoughts, in my books, writing these ridiculous post-it notes to myself...it's fun. It does wonders for my stress. And on the few occasions where I'm not alone, I'm usually with a really good friend which is kind of like being alone in that you have no hackles, no walls or, at least, very few of them.

But. I dunno...what are my qualms with it? It's expensive. It makes me eat like a panda. And sometimes it reveals some unlovely thoughts. There are these moments where I feel that sensation you get when you catch a photo of yourself and you're shocked - SHOCKED - at how unnattractive you are...ew, is that me? Oh my God, is that my skin? Is that how people see me?

I used to get those moments a lot.

I want cheese.


Yours,

I



It's the zombie apocalypse and I'm...throwing cherry bombs at the reactor.