Behold A Pale Cigarette

Well I did it.

I'm writing this under the influence of mara- juanna. I am completely stoned now. Let me go back to a story...a story about the '1 hitter'.

This story is how I learned that you too can enjoy all of the benefits of smoking weed when you can't roll a joint. Your joints were always fucked up. They would open in the middle of a smoke, or the ends will wax up and the hit is wasted. Well, the one hitter brought joy to those who couldn't, but could pack a metal tube. That's what the 1 hitters do, pack enough weed into a metal tube, for a hit that packs a wallop.

Well, several nights ago, I bought a one hitter and I had a little weed in my cupboard so, I packed the metal, cigarette looking tube. And smoked it. And I went hard to starboard! Now, around the time that I locked my self out of the apartment, I had walked by the office on the ground floor and Igor happened to be inside. Push comes to shove and the guy is following me around. I tell him that I'm going upstairs to smoke some weed. He doesn't smoke, but he has to be with me today no matter the reason. So, there I am smoking in front of Igor and he learns how to smoke dope from me. Well, he splits right after wards because he didn't smoke. Next you know this guy comes back to my apartment and sez to me: I wanna try it!

So he walks in with his own connects and phone numbers and everything and calls and hooks everything up. Like a professional. He goes through all the motions and even smokes with me, ending up not liking it. He passes the rest of the shit to me. He's not going to use it. I scratch my head and take the shit offered.

So now I got a supply, back up supplies, and a supplier. Tell me, what's that about?

Well, I got some shit and I find myself smoking it. The weed is making me paranoid. I'm thinking that Igor is a cop reporting to management. The cops put a plant in your crib as soon as they find out you smoke dope. That would be Igor. Then he buys shit from the street to prove how easy it is to net the funk. He leaves me with all the tools needed to finish the job. I have a number, a name, some weed...I'm ready to hang myself. Here's how it's going to go down. I run out of the weed that they gave me, call....

Hmmm, I'm surprisingly lucid when I'm bonged up pretty bad. It took me all night to write the above, but it's pretty much on track with what I was trying to say yesterday. To recap, I bought a one hitter recently, and I had hid some weed in my room already, so I packed it and smoked it in front of Igor. This guy comes back with everything needed to smoke again. When he is done, I have a whole $20.00 bag for free, a one hitter and more interest in smoking this shit than a sailor is interested in ass.

I hold onto it until today where I bring it to my brother. We made a deal, we'll leave the 'Willie Bo Bo' alone (our code name for weed) until we finish the Grant Proposal, and then we take a walk with my Roscoe (our code name for the one hitter) and blow these fucking trees up. We come back red eyed and grinning. I knew that I was fucked up within ten minutes. The high would just keep on going without me. My brain had jumped off the train and I struggled to write the above. It was hard because I would 'fall into' everything that I tried to do. To 'fall in' is to stare off blankly into space, or at whatever it is that caught your attention that second. I find myself staring into my monitor at the cursor or the arrow, no matter where it fell.

My brother, on the other hand, is making a supreme effort in trying to prove that the hit had no effect on him. He is hammered, his eyes red. He leans over to me and everything is hilarious. "Hey, can I get some money to go to Burger King to get some one dollar burgers." Yeah, the munchies had kicked in solid. I give him some cash to get some burgers for me too. I watch him leave the Starbucks, turn around three times outside the door trying to orient himself, and then walk off in the right direction. Now that's funny.

We eat our hamburgers, and spend the rest of the evening smiling stupidly. The high was so good that it was damn near magical. My brother has a dream weed that I had a supplier of once. The shit was excellent. It was called Purple Haze and I used to get scads of the shit. My brother and I smoked a whole bunch in his apartment back then and we took the high to the movies. That shit was amazing.

Now, he is playing weed critic, comparing Willie Bo Bo with Purple Haze. I laugh at him as we pack up for the evening, and while walking to Grand Central Station, I pull out my Roscoe and we spark up two more hits. This time, the high catches OBSIDIAN by the collar and his head goes into orbit. He's space shuttle material now. I don't know where the fuck mine went to. I think it just fell off, rolled to the curb and went down a sewer drain.

I proved to have the tools to make it home again (tools = mental capacity). I hid my roscoe and set up my laptop but could not do anything on it. Instead I crawled into bed and called it a good night's sleep.

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