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10:00 a.m. — I wake up and walk downstairs. My nostrils are immediately flooded with the smell of skunk wafting from the living room. A handful of my brothers are passing freshly rolled blunts.
Weed meter: 1 gram
10:30 a.m. — Hippy girl from next door comes over. She has a giant tattoo of the Taj Mahal on her ribs. She’s never been, but it “symbolizes her love of travel.” She also has a fat sack of nugs and a new bong purchased for the special occasion.
Weed meter: 2 grams
10:45 a.m. — Taco Bell run. I spend an absurd amount of time trying to decide between the Doritos Nacho Cheese Big Box and the Doritos Cool Ranch Big Box. It’s like goddamn Sophie’s Choice. I decide to go with my gut and get both. I’m so baked that when the lady at the window holds out the cup of water my friend ordered, I drop my change in it. Several joints are passed on the ride home.
Weed meter: 2.5 grams
11:35 a.m. — Ripping bongs and playing FIFA. Dave is eating a frozen pizza that is still frozen.
Weed meter: 4 grams
1:00 p.m. — I suddenly realize that I’m already late for my Women’s Studies class. It’s one of those bullshit classes that puts a ton of weight on class participation, so I have to go. On the drive there, the stop sign takes forever to turn green. A car behind me honks.
1:15 p.m. — Strolling into my Women’s Studies class, I make eye contact with a squinty kid sitting in the back and stuffing his face with a bag of Cheetos. We give each other a nod. He knows what’s up.
1:45 p.m. — The teacher projects a slide of rotund women posing for a Dove ad campaign. “Look how brave they are,” she marvels. “These are real women.” I go to jot down the crucial info in my notebook, only to find that I brought my physics book instead. I ponder the combined gravitational force of the Dove models.
2:30 p.m. — Starting to sober up, I realize that the rest of my afternoon class schedule had to be cleared. I return home to find my brother sitting with a stupid grin on his face next to a ridiculous contraption that spews smoke out the top and fills up a large bag you inhale. He tells me it’s called a “Volcano.” God help me.
Weed meter: 5 grams
3:30 p.m. — Hippy girl starts rubbing this handheld electric back massager against my inner thigh. It feels damn good. I realize that it’s probably the weed combined with the vibrating sensation occurring dangerously close to my package, but her dreadlocks start to look kind of attractive. She passes me the bong and tells me that she “likes my energy.”
Weed meter: 5.5 grams
4:20 p.m. — Roommate pulls out his rig. We take dabs.
Weed meter: too fucking much
4:30 p.m. — We watch this video. My mind is broken.
4:35 p.m. — “Naw man, I can’t handle another dab.” “No, YOU’RE a pussy. Pass that shit.”
Weed meter: Willie Nelson
Sometime around 5, I think — After grabbing some cheese dip, I close the fridge door, then pull out my car keys and press the lock button.
Weed meter: eleventy-six grams
??:?? — DID YOU KNOW THAT WE’RE ALL JUST ONE CONSCIOUSNESS EXPERIENCING ITSELF SUBJECTIVELY!?
Weed meter: The Beatles
??:?? — I am glued to the sofa, unable to move or speak.
Weed meter: Terri Schiavo
9:00 a.m. — I wake up in bed to the sound of a handheld back massager rubbing against my neck. “I like your energy.”.
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