After two weeks of smoking pot every day, “brah”, “dude” and “man” have crept to the front of my vocabulary list such that they pleasantly pepper almost every sentence I speak brah.
I’ve stopped shaving and have only been showering once a week, maximum, and when I do, I don’t like using shampoo or soap. Unnatural chemicals dude man brah man dude brah.
This is the second update to my 30-day experiment with pot/cannabis/weed/herb/green/nugs/headies/plants/trees/marijuana. All those off the top of my head in 10 seconds. Not bad huh?
My experience is getting better. My tolerance is still embarrassingly low, but not as low as it was, and I’m more able to enjoy the high instead of getting all caught up in my head with racing thoughts.
But a recurring thought while high is this series of posts and feeling stupid about: 1. Doing the experiment in the first place; 2. Writing about it. I don’t know what I’m doing most of the time, but it’s fine.
I’m enjoying pot a bit more now, and am, at this point, thinking that this practice will probably continue, unlike my past experiments. An every day habit is doubtful, but at least when I’m out in nature, I think a few drags off of a maryjewanna cigarette might be a nice addition to my life.
Just today I went to the beach with a friend due to an unseasonably warm and sunny forecast, and the fact that this could be the last comfortable beach day of 2014 in Rhode Island / Connecticut. Being high on the beach is, as every surfer throughout the history of the world would agree, fantastic.
The sun gleaming off the storm surf, the violent sound of each wave gurgling and smashing in on itself, pounding the sand (and soon after my body – scary as hell especially when high and no life guards or even people), the breeze over my sun-warmed skin, the soft, conforming sand under my scantily-clad (and incredibly muscular, tanned, sexy) body, the begging seagulls with their cute eyes and simple minds, their coats of feathers rustled by the wind when they absent-mindedly face away from it, and a special treat today: a flock of an estimated 10,317 barn swallows congregating in the dunes above the small but ancient pines (who have probably seen so many sexy bikini babes over the years, I pondered), swirling, a tornado of synchronized feathers riding the torrents of wind, chirping information we can’t begin to comprehend, preparing for their imminent migration to warmer, friendlier climates. What a sight that was!
Incidentally, I’m quite sure flocks of birds have a group consciousness, that they communicate instantaneously, telepathically, but probably unconsciously. Fascinating to watch. Note to self: watch more flocks of birds in the future.
The taste of a fresh, organic apple, a piece of delicious (but expensive) dark chocolate, fresh-squeezed (for real) orange juice, and a homemade chocolate chip cookie. What a day!
And now home, to do my day’s work at night when most outdoor activities would require a flashlight. Ah, the life of the unemployed self-employed.
I’ve had some great ideas over the past week. Great ideas I tell you! Ideas, however, are completely worthless unless pursued. Less than worthless even since they cost time and energy to produce and themselves cause pain because they’ll not be acted upon. Too bad because if they were worth anything I’d be a thousand-aire.
I will say that I feel the motivational drag of pot, the desire to do nothing after smoking. As such, my illegal dalliances will continue to be, as they have been for the past week, immediately preceding a period of several hours during which I plan to do no work. I can see how those who enjoy pot so much as to smoke it throughout the day, every day, are robbed of their motivation to do anything other than sit there and watch things.
It’s also interesting how pot affects one’s conception of time. Time can be either sped up or slowed down, and there’s no surefire way to influence it one way or the other.
I smoked before my billiards match yesterday, just for fun (which it was but I sucked and lost, thanks for nothing POT), and in the first rack I was analyzing a shot for a while, then decided against it and instead played a defensive shot, and when I was finally finished and realized I may have just spent an inordinate amount of time taking that single shot, I asked my friend and team captain if it really took as long as I presently realized it may have, and he laughed and said, “You took a pretty fucking long time man.” Oi. Sorry, opponent.
Sorry you got lucky and won, douchebag.
That’s it for now.
You can read the 3rd update here.