Monday, March 16, 2009

Up with Hope, Down with Dope

I know a guy called Dude. Dude had smoked the illicit substance, marijuana, close to a dozen times without feeling its psychoactive effects. Dude thought he must be immune to Tetrahydrocannabinol. Dude was wrong.

He was sitting on the couch between two roommates. Dude’s right arm went number. He swung his arm in a windmill motion to regain feeling. “Hey guys, I can’t feel my arm,” Dude said. His friends ignored him, carried their own conversation, knowing, having seen this odd behavior before.

Dude did not like being ignored. He went to the bathroom, and after washing his hands, looked at his eyes in the mirror. His irises were being smothered by the pupils, overtaken, completely black. He rushed to consult his friends. They laughed at him, and then went to sleep, leaving him alone to his couch and his television. Dude did not like being laughed at. He liked being left alone even less.

He locked the front and glass patio doors. He double- and triple-checked them to make sure they were super duper locked. Dude went back to his couch and tried to chill out. This lasted twenty seconds before Dude realized he was hungry. Dude couldn’t remember the last time he ate anything. He was so hungry. It must’ve been at least two or three…hours. Dude ate and ate, and though it will only be mentioned once more in this story because that would be repetitive, just know that Dude continued to eat pretty much the whole time.

It was late, and one of Dude’s roommates was still not home, yet. Dude got worried. He thought his roommate had been nabbed, tortured, sexually assaulted…his roommate was male, but you never know. Dude was scared for his friend’s safety, but became frightened when his roommate finally arrived. Dude thought his roommate was after him! Dude said nothing, even cowered, as his roommate walked right past him and into bed. Dude quickly locked the door.

Dude left the outside light on and checked the window constantly because he thought his roommate’s friend, whose house his roommate had just come from, wanted to kill his roommate. Dude actually liked both individuals, but if he had to choose between his roommate or the guy trying to kill him, Dude would side with his…never mind, Dude would simply cower again. Hopefully the door lock worked.

Nothing happened over the next thirty minutes, and while sitting on the couch, Dude couldn’t stand the lack of activity. The silence was scary as hell…well, the silence aside from the television still being on. Dude grabbed a paper and pen to write things, to make sure something happened because something needed to happen. There was no scrap paper in sight, so he grabbed an open envelope. The snail mail was not addressed to Dude.

Dude wrote. I am terrified. Never smoke marijuana again, it is horrible. I have to write, I must keep writing because something terrible will happen if I stop writing. This blue Bic pen doesn’t write well. What if it runs out of ink or just stops writing? Fuck!

I am watching X-Men United on HBO. The mutants are reaching out to me, trying to get me! Wolverine is taking the Tongue Boy away. Tongue Boy just looked at me and tried to lick me through the television screen. Fuck!

NEVER SMOKE AGAIN! This is terrible. I hate this. I want to stop writing so badly, but I can’t stop. My hand won’t stop moving. I have already flipped the envelope over and am writing over the crease (if you are reading then you can already see this). This can’t be normal.

After having written his fill, Dude went to sleep. Terrified, still hungry, but very tired.

Though he didn’t want them to, Dude's roommates found his envelope the following morning. We all read it, and found it hysterical, which is why I was able to remember the gist of it. Embarrassed, Dude threw the envelope in the trash. We still wish he hadn’t done that. It was a remarkable literary achievement.

That same day, Dude understood how uniquely awesome the last night’s experience was, and though he sternly warned himself never to smoke marijuana again, he already wished he could.


Postscript #1: Just Say No. Don't Do Drugs. Stay Above the Influence. Drugs are bad, mkay?

Postscript #2: Like other victimless crimes such as gambling and possibly paid sex, drugs should be legalized, regulated and taxed. Uncle Obama is missing out on loads of fiscal dollars, all because people in power actually think the “War on Drugs” works, or that gambling is wrong, or that prostitution is unsightly.

Postscript #3: Michael Phelps rules. Snoop Dogg, too.


jennrubenstein said...

for real though, the stuff must have been laced with something...

Anonymous said...

i agree with Jenn. that sounds like the time i smoked some shit laced with PCP. straight trippin homeboy.