My regrets.
There's a lot of shit going on in the world that I can't do anything about. But there is something I can do.
So, today as I rock and roll at work, with fake plastic trees closing in on me, it occurs to me that if anything should/could be solved in this world of woebegone wars, agent provocateurs, and up the creek youth, it is the stoner stereotype.
(Yes, that was one sentence.)
But listen here.
People who smoke up tend to get velcroed with stereotypes such as (but not/never limited to):
-Burn-out
-Couch dweller
-Skeeeetchhhhh
-Munchie Monster
-Wizard
I don't know 'bout choo, but I like to do proactive things when I'm toking. I like to call it "Pro-bowler Work."
Things I have done when I'm high:
-Airport Runs
-Watched many kickass movies.
-Ate some filalful and hummus at Amsterdamnnn.
-Made movies.
-Took sharpie-fied notes in Native Americans Studies.
-Got drunk at bars.
-Wrote.
-Accidentally sent a prof a meditation guide instead of an excuse sheet.
-Had great conversations with people.
-Attended concerts in parks and non-parks.
-Drank many a Christmas Coke.
-Tried on every piece of clothing in my closet. And then moved on to my brother's.
See?!
OKAY, but obviously I know that every time you crank the cannabis is not an experience of wonder. Sometimes, fuck. All you can do is sit on the coach and then try to move your hand to get the spoon in the peanut butter jar, and then tell your mind to tell your hand to move, but it's still not moving, so you try to mentally break down what you need to do to get ahold of that spoo-fuck it's a squirrel! Anddd your mom just called and your talking to your mom on the phone about school but looking at the squirrel outside and then realize that it's mouthing the words your mom's saying and you realize that everyone's fucking with you. All the time.
But that sort of high is not that consistent. At least not for me.
And this is a serious warning: just because you're attempting the probowler, stoner, star status doesn't mean you should bite off more than you can chew. First time I showered high, I mixed up the shampoo and the conditioner. Another time, strung out on final all-nighters and ravenous, I devoured a box of Fiber-One Bars. (I'm still recovering from that one). Michael said it best when he said, "They're called Fiber-ONE for a reason."
So why don't you prove the stereotype wrong? Don't waste your brain cells on nothing.
