My First Joint
Some first tokes expand consciousness. Some first hits mellow you out so you can become the person others turn to for understanding and compassion. Some initial forays into mind-altering substances cast the world in an entirely different light and one sees things that one never saw before. As you age, responsibility and common sense suggest that you put away the drugs of youth because as appropriate as they may have been for that time of your life, they are after all intoxicants, plain and simple.
However you retain in the archives of your experience the sights and sounds of your time with them.
I'll never forget how cold standing in knee deep snow in your gym shorts can be and how hard it is to explain Scope colored ice to your old man the next day.
I wish I could have passed a joint to the sweet blonde I adored all through high school over a roaring camp fire but that wasn't going to happen. A good runner up would have been a hit in the basement of a buddies' house with the wavy haired Irish girl obstaining ashamedly but that didn't quite pan out either.
Instead I bought a full joint of local grown Tibbet's Hill Thunderfuck in the boy's room, craftily hid in in my sneaker (no there's a place NO ONE would ever think of looking) and on a February Saturday night when Mom went over to the neighbor's for coffee and castigation of the new family next door, I invited my 2 year younger friend down for a pot party.
It was a perfect opportunity and it had been thrust upon me like the perfect storm of behaving badly. The joint had been stashed away in my room for the better part of two weeks and every night I connived how I might steal away to smoke it.
Mom was always home in the evenings because, let's face it, when its February in the frozen tundra, why the fuck go out for any reason other than to die in a snow drift?
Which I considered. Announcing I was "taking a walk" I planned to trudge out into Roberts' field (a couple of open acres of feed grass left in the middle of our small city as a reminder of either our rural past or the inability to feed a populace with a 2 month growing season) where nobody could see (or smell) my partaking of whoopie weed. I thought it was a good idea, the natural conclusion of a small search party coming across my frozen corpse and roach a few days later never having fully formed in my eager to be imbibed brain.
I was planning to "take a walk" Saturday night when Mom told me she was heading across the street you remember the phone number call if you forget where the pasta salad is.
Could I invite my friend down for company?
Sure.
Oh boy. Asian Opium dens, here I come!
Bunny on.
However you retain in the archives of your experience the sights and sounds of your time with them.
I'll never forget how cold standing in knee deep snow in your gym shorts can be and how hard it is to explain Scope colored ice to your old man the next day.
I wish I could have passed a joint to the sweet blonde I adored all through high school over a roaring camp fire but that wasn't going to happen. A good runner up would have been a hit in the basement of a buddies' house with the wavy haired Irish girl obstaining ashamedly but that didn't quite pan out either.
Instead I bought a full joint of local grown Tibbet's Hill Thunderfuck in the boy's room, craftily hid in in my sneaker (no there's a place NO ONE would ever think of looking) and on a February Saturday night when Mom went over to the neighbor's for coffee and castigation of the new family next door, I invited my 2 year younger friend down for a pot party.
It was a perfect opportunity and it had been thrust upon me like the perfect storm of behaving badly. The joint had been stashed away in my room for the better part of two weeks and every night I connived how I might steal away to smoke it.
Mom was always home in the evenings because, let's face it, when its February in the frozen tundra, why the fuck go out for any reason other than to die in a snow drift?
Which I considered. Announcing I was "taking a walk" I planned to trudge out into Roberts' field (a couple of open acres of feed grass left in the middle of our small city as a reminder of either our rural past or the inability to feed a populace with a 2 month growing season) where nobody could see (or smell) my partaking of whoopie weed. I thought it was a good idea, the natural conclusion of a small search party coming across my frozen corpse and roach a few days later never having fully formed in my eager to be imbibed brain.
I was planning to "take a walk" Saturday night when Mom told me she was heading across the street you remember the phone number call if you forget where the pasta salad is.
Could I invite my friend down for company?
Sure.
Oh boy. Asian Opium dens, here I come!
Bunny on.
posted by The Caustic Bunny at Saturday, September 04, 2010
1 Comments:
*sigh* i so missed out. all it did for me was give me a roaring headache. i was cursed to be a good kid. i haven't worked out the details, but i blame mom.
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