Day Four of Sobriety.
As my quest for the much sought-after hi-fi begins, I am already noticing signs of what could be my downfall.
Let's rewind a few days, shall we?
I get in trouble multiple times as a result of possession of marijuana and also the late Guillermo. (He was taken by the pipe Nazis, also known as... Mom and Dad.
So. As if my horrendous grades from the previous grading period didn't dig me deep enough into the ditch of no social life, I suppose I had burrowed myself even further into the recesses of restriction.
After the lectures, the guilt trips, the contemplation of disownage, I went along with my merry business and, well, how should i phrase this... smoked my little heart out. It was every day before school, at lunch, and then at least one more time at home later. The lack of proper smoking paraphernalia took me back to the days of soda cans, apples, and if I was lucky, a joint rolled with a page out of the Bible. (I see no other use for it. Not that I didn't enjoy reading about all the fictional characters and their fictional bullshit...) But all that aside, I was slithering my way around getting caught; my parents knew I was smoking, they just had no way of proving anything. 'Cause I'm what we call... sly. A sly, sly fox.
A few weeks back I had asked for something very large, loud, old, and fuckin' awesome. It was my Grandfather's hi-fi. For those of you who have not yet learned about these wondrous things, I will explain. Think about a big rectangular ugly piece of furniture from about seventy yers ago. It looks like a desk-type thing at a first glance, but look closer and at the top surface of the magnificent wooden antique, and you will find a record player and one of the first radios ever played in the comfort of a home. And there you have a hi-fi. It's what your grandparents most likely listened to records with.
I, being a rather unhealthy fan of music, became obsessed. I would sit down in my Grandpa's old room just staring at it, watching the sound pour out. You would only understand if you could hear this bass...
Anyway, I want it. My Grandparents are dead and it sucks enough that we have to get rid of this beautiful house, but the fact that they're trying to sell this relic of rhythm is painful. IwantitIwantitIwantit. The sentimental value it holds for me doesn't help much either. I've shared such jubilation with very very special people... Sam, Jamie, Rachel, to name a few.
It all comes down to this: I ask for it, and my behavior as of late sways my father's decision to, "Hell no." After a few days of grievance, I gather my debate skills from the depths of my mind and sit down in the living room. My father puts the TV on mute. We have a five minute conversation about what I'm going to do with myself in the next month. My father has no opinion on the drugs or the hi-fi. His concern lies in my grades and my social life, or lack thereof. We make a deal. I bring home grades, C's or above in every single one of my classes and I get my privileges back, including the right to leave the house alone and go visit with schoolmates and coworkers.
I am still left with the problem of my mother's concern for my drug abuse and my own undying desire for the hi-fi. I approach my mother, ready to sacrifice. My mother lays it down straight and to the point: I stay clean for a month, I get the hi-fi. There's no room for lies, seeing as they will be drug testing me, and certainly no room for slip-ups; if i get caught once, there's no chance of me ever getting the hi-fi again.
So... I have sacrificed the pleasure I get from smoking pot, the satisfaction I get from barely getting by in school, and the space in my teeny-tiny soapbox of a room, all for this one special piece of the past.
I'm thinking about breaking my arm. Perhaps the disability to hold a pipe, cover the carb, and inhale will save me from my weak, weak willpower.
Four days down, Twenty-seven to go.
Let's rewind a few days, shall we?
I get in trouble multiple times as a result of possession of marijuana and also the late Guillermo. (He was taken by the pipe Nazis, also known as... Mom and Dad.
So. As if my horrendous grades from the previous grading period didn't dig me deep enough into the ditch of no social life, I suppose I had burrowed myself even further into the recesses of restriction.
After the lectures, the guilt trips, the contemplation of disownage, I went along with my merry business and, well, how should i phrase this... smoked my little heart out. It was every day before school, at lunch, and then at least one more time at home later. The lack of proper smoking paraphernalia took me back to the days of soda cans, apples, and if I was lucky, a joint rolled with a page out of the Bible. (I see no other use for it. Not that I didn't enjoy reading about all the fictional characters and their fictional bullshit...) But all that aside, I was slithering my way around getting caught; my parents knew I was smoking, they just had no way of proving anything. 'Cause I'm what we call... sly. A sly, sly fox.
A few weeks back I had asked for something very large, loud, old, and fuckin' awesome. It was my Grandfather's hi-fi. For those of you who have not yet learned about these wondrous things, I will explain. Think about a big rectangular ugly piece of furniture from about seventy yers ago. It looks like a desk-type thing at a first glance, but look closer and at the top surface of the magnificent wooden antique, and you will find a record player and one of the first radios ever played in the comfort of a home. And there you have a hi-fi. It's what your grandparents most likely listened to records with.
I, being a rather unhealthy fan of music, became obsessed. I would sit down in my Grandpa's old room just staring at it, watching the sound pour out. You would only understand if you could hear this bass...
Anyway, I want it. My Grandparents are dead and it sucks enough that we have to get rid of this beautiful house, but the fact that they're trying to sell this relic of rhythm is painful. IwantitIwantitIwantit. The sentimental value it holds for me doesn't help much either. I've shared such jubilation with very very special people... Sam, Jamie, Rachel, to name a few.
It all comes down to this: I ask for it, and my behavior as of late sways my father's decision to, "Hell no." After a few days of grievance, I gather my debate skills from the depths of my mind and sit down in the living room. My father puts the TV on mute. We have a five minute conversation about what I'm going to do with myself in the next month. My father has no opinion on the drugs or the hi-fi. His concern lies in my grades and my social life, or lack thereof. We make a deal. I bring home grades, C's or above in every single one of my classes and I get my privileges back, including the right to leave the house alone and go visit with schoolmates and coworkers.
I am still left with the problem of my mother's concern for my drug abuse and my own undying desire for the hi-fi. I approach my mother, ready to sacrifice. My mother lays it down straight and to the point: I stay clean for a month, I get the hi-fi. There's no room for lies, seeing as they will be drug testing me, and certainly no room for slip-ups; if i get caught once, there's no chance of me ever getting the hi-fi again.
So... I have sacrificed the pleasure I get from smoking pot, the satisfaction I get from barely getting by in school, and the space in my teeny-tiny soapbox of a room, all for this one special piece of the past.
I'm thinking about breaking my arm. Perhaps the disability to hold a pipe, cover the carb, and inhale will save me from my weak, weak willpower.
Four days down, Twenty-seven to go.