What’s that? Science says I’m in danger of evolving into a short fat woman? OH GOD NO! Whatever will I do? All those days I enjoy as a slender willowy specimen of womanhood, GONE! I .. I can’t deal with this. I’m going to go have a rice cake and some crystal meth light to try and keep the ravages of evolution at bay. Maybe there’s something to all this creationism bullshit after all – if it’ll keep me from the horrors of being SHORT and FAT, I’ll believe in anything. Save me, Jebus!
It has come to pass that I am laughably, traumatically bad at drugs. After asking Ed for YEARS (and for once I am not exaggerating for effect; I’ve really been asking him for years) to use some of those connections he claims to have and get me some pot, I finally took matters into my own hands and asked around. TV always makes it seem so easy to get drugs, but if you are kind of dumb like me, it’s surprisingly hard. Short of going to a high school party or talking to random strangers looking suspicious on street corners, I really had no idea where to turn – so I decided to ask on Twitter.
Turns out this was actually a viable way to score some pot. Within seconds, I was followed by an enterprising individual who runs a delivery service in the downtown area or anywhere along a skytrain route. His prices seem rather reasonable – for all that I know, anyway – so I mentally filed him away for later, in case I feel the need to get some weed from a stranger. This won’t happen any time soon though, because of the next reason I am bad at drugs:
I decided to buy off someone I know professionally rather than a stranger, because I am not allowed to talk to strangers let alone buy drugs off them. I messaged my dentist* who had mentioned in passing that he could get me some weed if I ever wanted some. He agreed, and asked how much I wanted. I have no idea how pot is measured – I usually speak of it in terms of a singularity, as in “I would like a pot please” – so I said “I dunno, the usual?”. He said he would get me a quarter, which sounded reasonable to me – a quarter is one fourth of a whole, so that should do nicely.
When I shared this new development in my exciting world of criminal activity with my friends, they laughed at me. Apparently, “a quarter” is a LOT of weed. Ed says it’s enough for 200 pot weed drug times, or enough to keep a hardcore chronic busy for a week. Given the amount of smoking I actually do (remember the last time I bought drugs? Yeah, I still have some of it), this “quarter” will last me 50 years or so.
At least it would, if pot didn’t eventually dry out and get yucky. To get around this, I am going to experiment with some baking (no pun intended) – I haven’t made cookies in a very long time, so I think I’ll be getting all Betty Crocker this long weekend and enjoying Easter in style.
An excess of pot isn’t the only reason I am bad at drugs, though. I am completely unable to do much more with my “stash” than sniff at it – I am a banana from the suburbs; I haven’t got the first idea on how to “roll” a “joint”. We used to have some pipes around for this very reason – Ed never learned how to roll either – but could we find them last night? Of course not. So, I have all this lovely dentist-approved pot, and no way to enjoy it. The fates are mocking me! This is cruel. Are drugs normally this complicated? I am a terrible bad ass.
*: not actually a dentist, but I am Showing Restraint by not “outing” my “dealer”