Dear Michele-
at 4:20 today
I was sitting in a circle of boys at Trog's house. Everyone had their own pipe filled with weed and their own lighter. There were eight or nine people, and every single one of them there besides me was a total burnout. I insisted on not having my own pipe for when the clock struck burnout time, but they shoved on between my fingers anyway. Trog's disgusting voice counted down the seconds, and at the moment he was flicking his lighter, the clock's minute hand struck four twenty. Every man in the room lifted his pipe, bong, or joint, whatever he was fortunate enough to have, to his mouth, flicked his lighter, and inhaled a hit, just as any boy would do on their god-granted day, April 20th. I was reluctant at first, but in wanting to avoid ruining their perfectly planned moment, I did as they did, and took a hit from the random glass pipe I had in my hand. I felt like I was participating in one pot-smoker's event that I promised myself I would never participate in, because I had always hated all the hype about 420.
But this... this was bad. Not only was I participating, but I was surrounded by the biggest burnout cases I had ever known. Anu. Tito. Trog. Chris. Elliot. Mike. And after that twenty minutes spent rotating eight pieces of pariphenalia around in a circle, those kids were higher than the smoke that had drifted to the top of the cloud that was now suffocating the room. They were all high and they were all boring and typical.
I would have liked 420 a lot more if it was just a typical day. I would have liked 420 a lot more if I got high with Michele.
I was sitting in a circle of boys at Trog's house. Everyone had their own pipe filled with weed and their own lighter. There were eight or nine people, and every single one of them there besides me was a total burnout. I insisted on not having my own pipe for when the clock struck burnout time, but they shoved on between my fingers anyway. Trog's disgusting voice counted down the seconds, and at the moment he was flicking his lighter, the clock's minute hand struck four twenty. Every man in the room lifted his pipe, bong, or joint, whatever he was fortunate enough to have, to his mouth, flicked his lighter, and inhaled a hit, just as any boy would do on their god-granted day, April 20th. I was reluctant at first, but in wanting to avoid ruining their perfectly planned moment, I did as they did, and took a hit from the random glass pipe I had in my hand. I felt like I was participating in one pot-smoker's event that I promised myself I would never participate in, because I had always hated all the hype about 420.
But this... this was bad. Not only was I participating, but I was surrounded by the biggest burnout cases I had ever known. Anu. Tito. Trog. Chris. Elliot. Mike. And after that twenty minutes spent rotating eight pieces of pariphenalia around in a circle, those kids were higher than the smoke that had drifted to the top of the cloud that was now suffocating the room. They were all high and they were all boring and typical.
I would have liked 420 a lot more if it was just a typical day. I would have liked 420 a lot more if I got high with Michele.