Me On The Smallest Puff
I really shouldn't smoke pot. I
shouldn't. I'm useless if I'm stoned. There's a reason why they
sometimes called Thai stick, "Mekong MindFuck."
I've stated here before my reasons why
I don't but I slipped. I was a party in Duxbury, playing Cards
Against Humanity when someone handed me a joint. I've caved into peer
pressure before and taken ONE hit of it and most times, noting at all
happens. Not this time. Not that night.
I'm not sure of the type I hit on that
night but it wasn't what we called “ditch weed” when I was
younger a hundred years ago. Whatever it was it came
from a very well cared for plant with some controlled genetics. It
was probably cured by a Master Cuban Cigar Maker under strict
humidity controls too.
One Hit. No joke. I'm that much of a
lightweight. I was sent past Pluto.
I thought something was wrong, I could
feel reality twisting in me and I told myself, “Oh,
you are sooo fucked.” Within ten minutes, I was climbing fast and
my personality shifted into defense mode.
As Steven was explaining the rules to
Cards Against Humanity, I sat there and clammed right up. I figured
the less I do, shift in my seat, talk or even smoke a cigarette, the
better. I tried to listen to the rules, but my brain
decided a trip to the Enchanted Forest was better. The rules, as I
understood them at the moment, were just a shotgun spray of words.
Here were some of my thoughts.
“You oughta pipe up and ask what the
hell it going on....No! Don't! If you do that, you invite a
re-telling of the rules and they'll just go in one ear and slither
out the other for all to see. Better just sit and watch everyone
else.”
As the high hit it's apex, this is my
mind while stoned.
“Shit.IhavetothrowdownacardandIdon'tknowwhichonestothrow.IfIthrowdown”Auschwizt”and
”innocentbabies”everyonewillthinkI'masickfuck.”
And...
Dammit.I'msohighthatifItrytodrivehometonightI'llbepulledoverbyaStatieandhe'llknowinaninstantthat
I'mtotallyhighandI'llbechargedwithDWIandthey'lltowmycarandI'llgotocourtandI'lllosemylicense
andthenI'llneedtopayforalawyerandpaytogetmycaroutandpayfinesandmylifewillsuck.
I overheard someone say to another,
“Yeah, look at him, he's destroyed.”
I was. On one toke.
I hear that the most potent strain out
there is called Purple Haze and if it's grown hydroponically, if it's
life is spent in cooled, cycled fertilized water without soil and
radiated with 1000w sodium lights, the plant produces the strongest
TCH available.
If I had that, I'd be catatonic. Call
911.
This reminds me of a girl that crashed
into me at a Dylan concert once. We were about 20 feet from the stage
and the show hadn't started yet. So, I'm scanning the crowd, the
equipment on stage and the such when I then think I recognize someone
in front of me. I see a guy with naturally curly hair, almost an
Afro with grey mixed in it. He's wearing a tweed jacket with those
lovely elbow patches on the arms. I lean around some and realize it's
Dr. Thomas Cousins, a psychologist from Rhode Island College's Psych.
Department. I think, “Well, why wouldn't he be
here, this music is more from his generation than mine."
I don't wave hi to him or try to get
his attention though.
As I was standing there, a girl comes
charging through the crowd and body slams me in a full frontal
assault. This wasn't on purpose, just a huge misstep on her part. She
threw her arms around my neck for thirty seconds and I look right
into her face. Here eyes were swimming in her head and I could tell
she had ingested her drugs way too early for the show as she was
peaking now. She then disentangled herself from me and charged the
other way and crashed into Dr Cousins.
The girl did the same with him, she
threw her arms around his neck, but collapsed and was held up by
Cousins. As he held her he had this total look of shock on his face.
This middle-class, staid, respected Professor of Statistical
Psychological research now had this drooling teen girl hanging on his
arms. The poor guy just looked around the crowd with a “Would
someone please help me? I don't know what to do with this sick girl
as I'm too geeky to know what to do next?”
A couple of bouncers finally came and
rescued Dr Cousins. They carried her out the side door easily as she
probably weighed 95 pounds. She looked like a loose rag doll and
completely out of it.
Dr. Cousins brushed himself off, stood
erect and finally regained that sober respect once again.
I thought. “What incredible luck, to
pass out from drugs into the arms of licensed, practicing
psychologist.”
I don't want to come near to passing
out as I did that in my teens with cheap Popov vodka, never mind
doing that now with all these sophisticated pills the kids have
today.
Hell, I'm such a featherweight that
simple pot can wreck me.
I better stick to that watery
Budweiser, even though the owner at the Celtic has rolled his eyes
when I ordered one.
“For Fuck's Sake Ronnie...I have
plenty of choices from Ireland and you drink that piss?”
That “piss” keeps my brain from
leaking out my ears. I guess the older I get the more easy it is to
turn me into mush.
And if I hear, “Ronnie, this shit's
from British Columbia! It's hydroponic White Widow/AK47! A
cross-strain....Outrageous!” If I hear this, I'm running.
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