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Toke a Hit & Surrender

When In Doubt, Just Smoke Weed About It, Bro

After another utterly atrocious and needlessly bitter winter, it’s rather reassuring that Spring has finally sprung. Even if it happened one whole Gregorian calendar month later than was originally preordained. Hold that thought. Who were The Gregorians anyway? And why are they always chanting? Sounds like some kinda murder-cult business to me. Point being, I can finally don my lovely pink shorts, and fix my horrendously self-inflicted vitamin deficiency with a much-needed walk in the warm, welcoming sun. Cue The Beatles.

I grab my bag and head out the door. At a casual pace, it takes about forty-five minutes to walk down the Seussian-style mountain toward my therapist’s office. I put on some rather funkadellic tunes through my earbuds and head forth. I walk for the first half of the journey, before I stop cartoonishly mid-stride. It’s April 20th! 4/20! It’s like it’s the same day every year, or something. Weird how that works, right? How could I possibly forget, of all days? Today on 4/20, stoners around the world unite in colourful canna-bis-tic solidarity. Not that I need a reason to smoke up, on the walk to talk all about my feelings. Today’s as good a day and time as any. It’s what those elsewhere-elusive Gregorians would want anyway.

I open my pot-pouch, and much to my chagrin, I’ve only got one pre-roll left. All other budding would-be buds remain green and ungrinded in them-their jar. I know for a factual certainty that I have many joints ready to be smoked up back at home. Problem is, I’m already halfway to the office. I could go back, but that would make me late (of which I never ever am, admittedly to a fault) for my appointment. Also, the lazy apathetic in me doesn’t wanna have to walk all the way back uphill again. I made my choice, and now I gotta stick to it. I spark up the only remaining at-the-ready J and continue on down my very merry way.

By the time I get to the office, I still have a bit of the joint left, that’s not quite yet roached. I extinguish it and stick her back in my pot-pouch for later.

After the therapy session, I check the time on my phone, I’ve got five and half hours until my movie. But what to do in the interim? Sadly, I’m stuck in that awkward, weird rock-hard-place situation. You know the one. I could go back home, but again, walking uphill does not spark joy. Only to have to come back down again later. I might as well ‘make a day of it’. Whatever that means. Actually, there is a pretty cool library I like spending time at. Plenty of books to read and lots of creative pages to write.

There’s an easy bus and train route I can take to get to the oh-so-sacred, House of Great Knowledge. But I’ve gone that way, far more times than I can comfortably count. Perhaps I should explore a road less travelled. Me being me, I like to live dangerously. Meaning, I often go out in the world with a phone whose battery is almost always basically on life-support. I like taking the utterly unnecessary risk of The Eternal Yellowpages Dirtnap on a paltry 5%. Yes, I’m a masochist. And yes, I did bring my charger. I don’t masochistically like living that dangerously.

I map the route from my Current Location to the library. I gotta take the 101, which is a bus I’ve never taken before, but it drops me right there. Perfect. I head towards the bus stop in queried question. Only to be stopped in my tracks, by a massive train barrelling its way down its own tracks.

Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. I pull out my phone in the vain effort to chart an alternate course. And then my phone promptly dies. My phone charger is utterly useless outside with no near access to a wall socket of any sort. I grab the last legs of the nearly roached J, spark her up and suck back the smoke deep into my lungs. If I can’t get past the train to the bus stop, well, neither can the impending 101. I take the moment, rather I take several moments, cuz ya know, the train is so blasted long, and just-- exist. I just am.

There’s not a single thing more that I can do. Not having a car has its advantages, ya know? This is one of them. The junkyard-sized automobile line up at the three-way intersection grows, as the train continues stopping everything in its path. And I’m just standing there, free as bird, in my pink shorts. I mean, not that I’m flying free bird. You get what I mean.

Before I know it, the train finally passes. And the world resumes as normal. The 101 hasn’t arrived yet, and I have no bloody clue what time it is. What with my phone still totes outta commish. This park bus stop wouldn’t happen to have an uber random sundial conveniently planted within arm’s reach, now, would it? I sit down at the stop, breathing in the free air. The bus will come when the bus will come. Or I’ll just sit here till the sun explodes and we all die.

Then the most comical thing possible happens. Another freight train pulses and pounds down the tracks. The only difference is, I’m now on the other side. Where the grass is… greener? And the shoe’s… on the other foot? Well, now I definitely can’t go back. I take the moment to just appreciate the beauty of my immediate surroundings. If there were ever a time to roll with the punches, this was it. As car upon car stack up against each other, utterly beholden to the big red metal behemoth continuing down the track with not a single iota of a care in the world, I take the utmost time and care, to roll as many joints as I possibly can.

Car horns blare and honk. People scream and swear at each other. Where am I in all this? Achieving a higher level of enlightened being. Emphasis on “higher”. Eventually the second train trial does indeed pass. And right there, eagerly awaiting to pick up yours truly, is the 101.

I take the bus all the way to the library, pleasantly buzzed. After the requisite killable hours (good book title, I’m gonna copyright that asap), I make the final trek down toward the movie theatre, as the sun sets in front of me. I casually pop two flawlessly rolled joints ‘tween my teeth into my jaw-space and akimbo-smoke them both, as Magic Hour dances ‘round and splashes itself across the Western sky.

I reach the theatre, properly baked like a cake that’s flying high as a killer kite. I’m utterly ready for the next great gory, horror comedy with a completely packed audience, who based on the collective smell of the cinema surrounding the perimeter of the cinematic domicile, had the exact same idea as I did.

Remember this age-old adage from “The Stoner’s Guide to Life 101”: When In Doubt, Just Smoke Weed About It, Bro


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