Smoke
This weekend I bought my own weed for the first time. Since I acquired a piece for Christmas it has mostly been sitting unused in a box in my desk drawer. I was surprised, honestly, to even be given a pipe, since the only pot I ever come across is stuff that I manage to mooch from friends. Almost everyone I know has their hookups and for some time I've intended to get a little stash of my own to keep around the house. But, as usual, people keep falling through on me. Reilly, my charming housemate, seems to have a codependecy on the stuff, but I refused to stoop to that level to come by some just for some weekend amusements.

Anyway, I was whining about this around a mutual acquiantance of Cat's and mine after Japanese class. Two hours later, she was dragging of down High Street (ha ha, I know) to some apartments where her "friend" lives. The guy himself seemed pretty cool. However, there were about eight people crammed into the tiny apartment and one of them kept laying it on Brooke (the mutual friend), touting how he had some huge stash of 'shrooms and X amount of weed and they should get together. It was pretty weird and I think it made Brooke highly uncomfortable. She kept insisting that she'd been trying to quit smoking (not cigarettes, she still loves those) but ended up walking out with a 2/5s of my eighth.

Okay, so picture me being aloof. I'm basically a dumbass when it comes to substances. I drink maybe once a month. Mostly less. Usually not to get drunk. I keep it simple. Wine or vodka. Shots or glasses. I've never touched a cigarette in my life. Cat's "smoker's jargon" was utterly lost on me when she was telling me about the two cigarettes that you smoke first and last in a pack, your "lucky" and ... something else. Here we are and I'm coughing up some hard-earned newly-deposited cash for some amount of pot that I really know nothing about. First question: what the fuck IS an eighth? Not in weight, I don't care about that, I know it's an eighth of an ounce. But how much is it? How much USAGE am I getting out of it? All anyone every really says is "it depends." All I know is it's a litte more than I want in price and quantity. Give me something I can work with here. I'm your average preppy girl looking to smoke up Friday night, not some junkie stocking up the pantry. I smoke less than I drink and when I say that I mean... maybe six times a year. Mr. Dealer is asking me these questions and I'm standing there like a retard. A 30-sack, that sounds good. Less than the $50 for an eighth, so that means... what... 3/5 of it. Whatever. Brooke says no, get the eighth, if you want to do it that way, I'll take 20 of it and you can end up with that amount. Again, whatever. "It's Organic," the guy says. "Good stuff." Of course you're going to tell me it's good stuff. You sell it, dipstick. Do you grow it? No. Whatever. Done.

I leave, badgirl status still unachieved. Wondering if he measured it right or conned me into something. Gave me the wrong bag, anything like that. I stop worrying. What the hell do I care? I got what I came for, I got friends to split it with. I'm no longer a mooch. Eh. *shrugs* There's something fun about breaking the law. Between this and Cherrypepper, I'll have quite a few trophy moments from my young adulthood.

I get on my bike and run a few errands on the way home. DariMart and Sundance. Milk and Juice. Mmm. I'm crossing Alder street and I see something unbelievable. Comic and sad and disturbing. A guy in a mechanized wheelchair is truckin it down the middle of the street and not only that but he has a tractor trailer attached to the back of his chair. Not any tractor trailer, but a passenger cart. Two seats in it. First, I can see how this would inconvenience him from riding on the sidewalk but what was he doing with a passenger cart anyway? Does he take pay for "rides"? I puzzled over this as I watched him cross 24th and continue up Alder, the wrong way. Pssh. Wheelchairs. No respect for the law.

Erm.
The pot turned out to be pretty decent. Lord knows it smells strong enough. What this means is beyond me, but a third of it belongs to Cat, another third to Justin, and the last to me. Nothing in excess. I wish I could know if it really was organic. I'd rather breathe in bugs than pesticides any day... but either way will have me hacking bits of my lungs onto the floor after a few hits. Love us amatures. We still breathe clean air most days.