Welcome home, rain. The stuff falling out of the sky, not my girlfriend. (She’s welcome as well…)
Oh, what to do? I have the day off. Thanks to Grinder’s rare display of compassion and common sense, I don’t have to travel downtown to get paid. I was slipped an envelope with instructions not to cash it before a certain time, or Grinder’s “ass would be in a sling.” I assured him his ass would only be ravaged if he wanted it that way, and that it would be his doing, not mine. In other words, all is well with Grinder. We sexually harass each other in front of Bart, who wishes it were her so she could sue…
Oh yeah, what am I doing talking about work? I’m fucking FREE today!
It’s shred day. I could take my pile of sensitive junk mail to the TV station and turn it into toilet paper. A movie? Maybe. There’s nothing I’m stoked to see. I’d rather lay in Rain’s or Meg’s bed and watch DVDs.
Or… I could take a trip and never leave the farm. Being a patient in the OMMP has opened a few doors. My friends at the cannabis cafe are always cooking up some kind of spiked goodie. Some have magical effects, others are either a waste of time, too expensive, or simply not a good fit. The OMMP has relaxed possession restrictions to where one can keep enough crap weed around to cook with. (It takes a lot of weed to cook, in comparison to what one would smoke. A batch of brownies could be a felony to a non-card holder.) The thing about edibles? They don’t mess with your thinking process as much as smoking does. Except maybe short term memory. Where was I? Oh yeah.
One of the top dogs at the cafe lives close to Meg. We pass each other all the time in odd places, laughing about how hippies know the best routes to sneak a smoke when walking downtown. He has been kind to me, making sure I’ve always “got medicine.” He knows my fondness for edibles, and does his best to make sure I’ve always got something compatible waiting at the cafe.
As I left Meg’s a few days back, I saw him leaning against his car, so I wandered over to scratch his dog’s ears. We shared a hug, and he offered a puff on his glass bowl. (I politely declined. Too many eyes…) “Hang on a second, I’ve got something upstairs for you.”
He went into the building, and was gone about five minutes. He returned with a large plastic bag inside a black plastic bag. “I know how you appreciate the edibles, and I had a few extras.” He gave me some spiked jolly ranchers, and another baggie. “Look at this.”
It looked like a retarded frog on a stick.I recognized what it was made of. “Ooh! I know this stuff. I’ve been living on stars and goldfish.” (Which sounds like a totally stoner thing to say, huh?) “It tastes like honey candy, and a couple hours later you find yourself grinning stupidly at whatever is in front of you. Heh, a stem?” The lollipop-stick was a tiny branch from a weed plant.
“I appreciate how you know your stuff. Be careful. That’s probably a weekend’s worth for the average person.”
“I’ll do it on a day off.”
The rain is drizzling, I have tunes on the rolling jukebox, and about forty minutes on the bus from home to downtown.
Looks like it should time out just about right… That day has come.