I think there's some kind of conspiracy going on to turn me into a pothead...
My last entry -- which was, doubtlessly, profound -- was followed by a trip to Norman's house, where I found Norman had left for a toga party (uh...) and our friend Elli had dropped by for a girl's night in at Norman's place... Norman had left us free reign of the apartment: the VCR, the TV, his movies, and a small bag of weed and a pipe on the coffee table...
Now, it's a little embarrassing to admit, but Elli intimidates me a little. She's beautiful and she's smart and she's... well, she's a chick, and I'm not really accustommed to having female friends... Especially ones who've had a few years to become more beautiful and intelligent than myself... Now, I won't say I was cowering-in-a-corner intimidated, just... a little uneasy. It's harder to socialize when it's just two of you... So, I figured, what the hell: when Elli lit up Norman's pipe and handed it to me, what was I going to do? Say, "No thanks, I'd rather sit here like a board and sincerely hope I'm not acting like I have a redwood up my ass?"
So Elli and I made short work of the weed lying on the table, after which we watched some videos, the first of which was the "Twin Peaks" pilot (and dude, you should SEE that midget dance sometime... seriously...), and the second of which was called "Rumblefish," (and PLEASE don't ask me for a synopsis...)
Elli left, and I fell asleep on the couch. I awoke to Norman whispering in my ear, "hey baby... wanna go to bed?" I don't think I would have been surprised had he walked in in a toga, but as luck would have it, the really weird stuff didn't start until later...
I dreamed of death... Now, I've dreamed of death before, but usually, it's a horrible stifling process: me gasping for breath and feeling my forehead growing larger and bulging out and pressing my perception down deep into nothingness... This was different. I dreamed I saw my body lying in a pool of blood, peaceful and... well, just dead. I realized in the dream that I had been hit by a truck outside of a... a Dairy Queen? Weird, yeah, but it was very vivid. Not frightening, exactly... You'd think that witnessing your own dead body lying in a parking lot of a Dairy Queen would be frightening, but it wasn't... Matter of fact, I recognized the Dairy Queen as one about a block away from a bus station in North Carolina; I'd been there before, I ordered a 7-up, and I don't suppose I'll ever be back there anyway, so there's really no use being frightened by a dream like that... Besides, upon waking up and pondering the dream, I WAS fully cognizant of the fact that I was probably still a little stoned...
So I lay in bed all day, drifting in and out of sleep. When I finally dragged myself out of bed and out of Norman's arms, I ran to my house for a couple aspirins, realized I didn't have any time to walk to work, and called a cab.
Now, this is where the fucked up parts start happening...
I am WELL aware that weird things happen ALL the damn time. I'm usually QUITE aware of them WHEN they happen. But for some reason, Sunday was a wonderful day for strange events.......
First, the cabbie pulled up to the wrong house. I wandered over to the cab, parked a block away, and asked, sort of rudely, "You looking for house number ***?"
"Yeah," said the cabbie. "It's not this one? Oh, you'll have to excuse me... It's my first time ever driving. I've never done this before." I thought, just MAYBE, he meant he'd never driven for a cab company before, that it was his first day. Evidently, he meant he'd never DRIVEN before. FOUR times, within the course of thirteen blocks, the dude hit the curb. That's almost one out of every three blocks! I'm NOT exaggerating! I couldn't exaggerate if I tried!
Realized, while at work, that I was still very much stoned. I believe the revelation occurred while I was standing at the pizza oven waiting for it to turn on so I could watch the X-files on it...
At 12.55 AM, a dirty gentleman with a beard and a bag walked in and began begging people to buy him beers. I told him I couldn't buy him a beer, I wasn't old enough. (Sometimes, that old "zero-tolerance-no-underage-drinking" thing really does come in handy.) He attempted to engage in conversation with me, which made me incredibly paranoid... Strange, because generally, I would have bought the guy a beer and spent the rest of the night listening to him talk... He managed to tell me he was hitch-hiking to Bath, New York, to go to a Veteran's Hospital, but at that point, I was a little too freaked out to talk, and sort of buried myself in my coat hoping I'd become invisible and he'd leave me alone. Apparently upset at my unwillingness to talk and everybody's unwillingness to buy him a beer, he put his coat on, stood up, walked to the center of the room, and bellowed "I AIN'T THE DAMNED PRODIGAL SON!" and then walked out of the bar.
("But when he came to himself, he said, 'How many of my father's hired servants have bread enough and to spare, but I perish here with hunger!'" --Luke, 15:17)
I doubt the guy had any idea what he was talking about; he really was fairly schizo... Rather, he probably knew EXACTLY what he was talking about, but nobody else did... I, however, in my state of semi-bugged-out-ness, had all sorts of ideas regarding his potentially-profound statement...
...But these things just don't HAPPEN when I'm in a normal state of mind... I'm really beginning to think that the only times events occur that are worthy of being perceived are when I'm incapable of perceiving them accurately... Hm.
Went to Norman's for the night, and continued to have fucked-up dreams... This time, something about a circle of people all bearing one object apiece: a skateboard, a latté, a paint set, a guitar... Each laid their object in the center of the circle and I was supposed to choose among them... Strange: that one upset me more than the Dairy Queen dream...
Woke up and went off to work... Business as usual, only I STILL wasn't functioning on my usual plane of reality... And of course, the teasing that ALWAYS goes on among the Java Crew seemed particularly difficult to respond to... At one point -- a less lucid point, mind you; I was NOT like this all day -- Boss-Lady Kathy was making miniature muffins to bring to some of her friends after work, and I made some klutzy comment along the lines of, "ooohhhhh, babies!" Not that THIS is anything unusual; dumb things are ALWAYS coming out of my mouth, and my co-workers generally just let it slide with a smile... But of course, somebody HAD to turn to me and say, "they're not baby muffins... They're regular-sized..." THAT, of course, fucked EVERYTHING up, and for one brief moment, I honestly had no idea what size the muffins were, at which point I dragged my co-workers aside and pronounced, "look, man, I'm stoned off my ass, so PLEEEASE don't fuck with me TOO badly..." They all took it well: kind of giggled at me and called me a lightweight for STILL being wasted after 36 hours...
...And all was well and right with the world until... until one certain Java Kid made his daily appearance (he's asked me not to use his name; not even a pseudonym, so I'm being careful here...) And this one certain Java Kid, who subsists entirely on pot, beer, and coffee -- and meat-free Ramen noodles: ew -- demanded to know, "Helena, how come you won't smoke a bowl with ME?"
"Well, [certain Java Kid]," I said, "Because I don't LIKE being as stupid as I feel now! But someday, I will smoke a bowl with you... Someday, okay?"
...He showed up at my apartment half an hour after I'd gotten off work. Complete with a dime bag. Ohhhh, Certain Java Kid, how I was NOT in the mood to fuck myself up even MORE... How utterly and completely ready I was for more than one instant of clarity at a time... How desperately I wanted to be sober... And now, now here's this dude at my door with a ten-bag, BEGGING me to smoke a damned bowl with him...
So WHY did I do it? Why, when I SO badly want NOT to be stoned? Why, when I realize VERY clearly (despite not realizing anything ELSE clearly) that I'm going to lose an entire week of my life because my brain is functioning on Helena-Retard level...? I have no idea. Perhaps because it's still sort of new to me, and even though I was pissed off at myself for being unable to form coherent sentences, I still wanted to play with something that's basically still kind of a new toy for me... Wanted to see how much is too much, wanted to see how exactly you're supposed to tell good weed from bad weed... I don't know... Whatever the reason, I found myself on my front porch with Certain Java Kid, taking two hits from his sacred bowl of what he decreed was "man... some good weed..."
Five minutes later, I was laughing uncontrollably and possibly rolling around on my futon. At least now I know, relatively speaking, sort of the difference between weed and better weed. Java Kid's weed fucked me up good. I was afraid, for a few moments, to use my own bathroom, for fear of getting lost. To keep myself from getting "lost" (just go with me here), I centered every bit of my attention on my television. As I explained to Java Kid:
"If I'm not watching TV, then I'll have to talk. And if I have to talk, then I'll be stoned, because I won't know what I'm talking about. But if I just sit here and watch the TV, then I won't have to be stoned, I can't just be watching TV." Pretty damned profound, enh? This was followed almost immediately by a bout of giggles that only subsided when one of my neighbors knocked at the door to say hello.
...And let me tell you, my performance was OSCAR material... Move the hell over, Julia Roberts. If Helena Thomas can convince somebody she's on a somewhat-average plane of reality when she's internally wondering why her cat is so tall (uh...), she fucken deserves an award.
I've been watching television all evening. It seems safest just to bury myself in some senseless activity that involves basically no brain function. While this experience has, indeed, given me a few insights into the meaning of life, I don't REMEMBER any of those insights, and I'm left feeling really stupid and helpless. When Java Kid left (I don't remember him leaving), I locked my eyes on the television and refused to budge lest I somehow become engaged in an activity I no longer knew how to perform.
Now, I'm about ready to swear off marijuana for another few years. Enough is enough. I've smoked pot three times in the past four days, and I'm not happy with myself or my ability to function. I'm not in control anymore, and I haven't been for awhile. Hell; I'm not even sure this is all making sense, although I do notice I've used a couple of words I've never used before; I hope they're used correctly...
Anyway, this is officially the end of the experiment... Who knows what I'll wake up feeling like tomorrow? Or the next day? Or hell, the next day? But after the high is completely gone, I'm going to let it remain gone for a good long while...
...if I can remember having made that vow...
~Helena*