This Bong in Front of Me…
As a new member of this community, and of blogging in general, I am ecstatic to announce that I received a staggering five page views today. That last sentence should be read with no sarcasm. After two consecutive misses, a heavy hit brightens my day.
I was at work when I discovered this, so of course I was daydreaming through the rest of my shift, pondering the endless topics I could write about for my next post. I know little about WordPress, but I do know this- I’m not that good at it yet. My talents are lacking when it comes to organizational structure and variety in my style, which I why I force myself to switch between poetry, stories, thoughts, and various other forms of textual media. I mimic, hoping it will stick.
The skill set I have as a writer is relating my emotions to others who have experienced the same emotions. My most popular poetry is rooted in heartbreak; the ones that flopped were my attempts at hip-hop, or narrating a story without losing the rhyme scheme. Unfortunately, my audience was limited to those on my Facebook friends list, and whoever they showed it to (there were a couple of fan groups that popped and fizzled).
With the new found freedom of a global audience, an audience whose average mental age is greater than sixty, I can explore my potential. First thoughts?
(Oh, my mother will hate me for this.)
I am a California boy, in the most hipster sense of the word. I wear flip flops when most people wear shoes, and when those same people wear flip-flops I go barefoot. I wear my stunna shades at night. I start shivering at seventy degrees, and you’ll likely see me with a scar rather than a shirt. I have (and wear) a fedora. From Wal-Mart. Then take into account the true fact that Los Angeles has nearly ten times as many legal marijuana dispensaries as Amsterdam, Holland. #LAstonerpride
I don’t find it that glamorous, though at one time I remember being convinced that weed was really all I needed. It’s become more of a hobby/habit, and when I find someone who shares it we have an instant connection. I like it, so far the negatives aren’t that bad, and it’s led to far more good times than bad. And a sleep aid to boot? Hell yes.
At some point I will publish a post detailing the months I did nothing but smoke and drink, but lets just say that I’ve cut back substantially. What was once lasting me for three days is now lasting me a week, regularly, and the behavioral symptoms I was expecting to signify a physical withdrawal have not yet occurred. I’ve plateaued, and am content to stay here for awhile, at least until the pressure returns.
Blogging has actually taken over as my primary nighttime routine, preceding my nightly toke. I’ve begun to do just this- write whatever happens to come to mind in as much of a coherent way as possible, and when the inspiration stops, grab the bong. I’ve begun to realize that this doesn’t help, it just hinders my ability to continue on whatever creative avenue I had been on. But I still do it. Like right now.
I can’t tell If it’s because I’m writing about it or if it’s an urge but the bong is next to me and my thoughts keep drifting away from writing. I’ve made the decision.
I reach over and grab the thing, a foot- and-a-half high zong, made by a company called Sour. It was a steal, retailing for over $150.00 USD, but I managed to pick it up off a friend for fifty. Recently pimped out with a new bowl and downstem, as the others had been carelessly chipped away into oblivion (minimum wage stoners, you know what I’m talking about).
The weed itself is from a dispensary in Woodland Hills known as The Loft. Although the place is overpriced, I’ve known most of the staff from their other jobs at other dispensaries. For those of you that don’t live around So Cal, the weed shops here are fickle.
(This is the point in the blog marking the difference between sober ^^^^^^^^ and after some tokes vvvvvvv)
Ah. My friends and I always discuss how we can tell we are high. I know, when I feel a tingling start in my chest and I can follow it through my body to the tips of my fingers and toes.
Anyway, the weed shops here are fickle, and most don’t stay open for more than a year or so, some less. The staff however, gets recycled through the same people who close and re-open the dispensaries. Being a customer, I’ve seen the same faces in numerous different shops, and they eventually recognized me as well. The Loft itself used to be a hash bar, the first and only one I have ever been to. They were forced to shut down that part of the business to avoid too much attention from police. Now, it’s just a really nice lounge that you can go to too order weed infused food and smoke with random people. I like it.
And, ladies and gentlemen, that is my blog post. I thank whoever my next five viewers are for reading this, if you got to the bottom.