Stoop Kid's Afraid To Leave His Stoop

DAY 3. (YES. I am keeping track of these 40 days.) 

Of course, my beloved english professor, who accessories her mousey personality with fur crocs, lectured the other day about how mary jane should actually be legal because of all of the health benefits and because no one has ever died from it, blah, blah, blah, WEED. But it's okay, I'm not going through "withdrawals" or anything. 

Actually, it's been kind of nice (in some aspects). I like waking up in the morning for class/work not fucking OUT OF IT like I almost always do because of an obese good-night bowl I chanced upon the night before. It's nice. I feel like, for the better part of the last 6 months of my professional, varsity, gold-medal

 winning, smoking lifestyle, I've preached over and over again how I could quit at anytime, but smoking just opens up my eyes to so many more beautiful happenings and opportunities in the world that I can appreciate. I didn't just preach, I was the preacher. But I never actually went a day or two without it (unless for speech). I'm sick of talking big talk and never actually DOING anything I say. Yes, I can bullshit my way through almost any tight situation and yes, it's fun, but what's the point? I doubt myself, a lot, that's why. I know I have potential and it's been recognized, but right now, that's about all it is. 

SO, going off of my baby blog's birthname, I officially declare to GET BORN. This challenge is a true test of my character, and, yeah, I'm saying it's for Lent, but who actually keeps their Lenten promises? I'm giving up a drug, and although it may be a big deal to me, that's just not enough in the big picture. In the big picture, I'm turning 21 at the end of this school year, and what do I have to say for myself? Really, a whole lot of nothing. Below, there is a link. It is my gift to you. So listen to the whole thing, by yourself, in a dark room, with eyes closed. 

http://c4.libsyn.com/media/794/indiefeed_derrickbrown_afingerandtwo.mp3?nvb=20100218215329&nva=20100219220329&t=05608d33f7cbf24910384

Just Like a Woman

Lent is upon us, my friends, and it's about time I became a good person again. I'm giving up the hardest thing in the world to give up (at least, for me). What? WEED. I went from a rare smoker to an inebriated smoker to a social smoker to an everyday smoker to an everyday plus benefits smoker. Basically, my thought process went a lil' like this: Go to class,  feel bored  ->go smoke. It's freezing outside/the wind is raping my face and I have to walk all the way to Humanities. Twice today.  -> go smoke. There's a crazy weird movie added to Netflix. -> go smoke. I'm bored and I don't want to do homework. -> go smoke. I just really fucked up. -> go smoke. Almost time for dinner -> go smoke. THE OLYMPICS ARE ON! -> go smoke. The Olympics are not on. -> go smoke. My car's dirty. -> go smoke- IN THE CARWASH! 

Basically, I'm not smoking to have fun anymore. And from what I remember, I don't have fun. The thing is, I barely remember anything when I smoke. It's like a self-adhered amnesia that I apply in an ever-thickening coat. My friend and I have talked about this before, how there are holes in our memories from our nights spent with Blueberry, White Widow, and Purple Haze. Even once, we discussed something, and after a brief, momentary distraction we already had that memory slipping through our fingers. We were losing it, and we were conscious of us losing it, but we couldn't do anything about it and then it was gone. I want to feel things again, really feel things. Not the numb, hyped-up "freedom" that takes control of my senses when I smoke. Except for on Sundays. I'll save that feeling for Sundays.   

"If someone smokes you out, you have to tell them the truth."

Mona Lisa's & Mad Hatters

I realize now that I didn't get to fully elaborate on the statement I made in the last post. It's weird when you can tell you are changing, and you know you could stop it if you wanted to, but you just don't care. This sounds a lot like a previous post, but it's different, I swear. 

Those faces and beings I've surrounded myself with and considered to be "my kind"....aren't  really fitting the way they used to. It's puzzling, the puzzle of life: a constant tetris game of trying to find the perfect fit with those spaces and corresponding faces. And it's fucking exhausting. It's a vicious cycle of  going with the flow of your instincts and regretting, regretting, regretting those decisions and the sacrifices you must make because of them. I generally get along with most people (varying with the day and the number of drinks/hits), but lately, I feel like conversations are forced and fucking nostalgic. Gross. I feel like I can only connect with two people here on an intellectual, delusional level. Yet this otiose, platform 93/4 drenched level, when reached, never lasts long enough. My eccentric thirst is never quenched. I'm always waiting for the beloved, most coveted, long, blue piece to appear in the game to make it all even and make it all make sense. 

Our Wigwam Kiss was too young to hold

 I don't care if this sounds cliche or ridiculous, but I finally feel like I am on the road to becoming the person I've always wanted to become. Basically, I'm getting more mature. 

I'm in need of some summer hookah and weed lovin' as well as drinking wine by a lake. It's so conservative here the only way my mind gets blown is if I crank, some indie music as I drive or lay in my bed with the windows and doors open as the palm trees brush against each other and bon iver makes love to me. Or smoke, weed with the guys because no girls do it here. My roommates are against sex before marriage and I like to get wasted and makeout in a techno club. I wear big sunglasses and dresses, I need spring weather to get here so I can lay by the pool and pretend to be someone famous in california who doesn't have to do anything----

 "I'm a high school lover, and you're my favorite flavor."