Juana de Mary is my only true love


Everything’s a little more interesting when you’re not sober. For instance: while I am here at my home in Rhadamanthus Acres where we whip our elderly, heterosexual, white slaves I must be sneaky with the smoking of my cannabis. So, while I load my pipe which I have named Tweedle Dee which has orange double helices running down its sides with Lemon G, a weak hybrid as hybrids go, I think about my first time entering the exquisite world of THC.

It was early in the first semester of my freshman year. I had decided that I would get over this not having tried weed thing as soon as possible. In truth, the opportunity had presented itself before in the form of my dread-haired philosophy roommate Jacob, who held a Med-card. An annoying roommate, but generous with his connections.

They look like tie-dyed gargoyle penises.

They look like tie-dyed gargoyle penises.

Anyways,  he invited me on an excursion he and the other resident stoner had arranged for the dorm floor. He gave me a chunk of a white chocolate bar, the taste of weed overpowering. Then all the guys on the floor congregated outside, having eaten their rations.

We went for a walk. Our objective was to get to a popular shopping district in town, but we never made it. We were walking through campus, the guys I hated giggling hysterically while I walked with my head down, ripping up the leaves I snatched from bushes. We got off campus and walked down a hill. My roommate proposed that we stop in a bakery called Baked, because irony is a thing.

There were a lot of people inside. Too many. One of our guys walked up to the counter and ordered a box of chocolate chips and a pint of milk. My roommate asked if he could have a “just a little bit” of a cookie. With permission, he ripped out a substantial hunk. The rest of us followed suit.

But all was not right with the stoners. One of them was hiding his face in the crook of his arm and the surface of the table. He was tapping his feet with the beat of a machine gun. Then, as if he had had too much of the place, he got up and slammed the door behind him, the bell ringing shrilly. His comrade followed him at a brisk pace. That’s when I realized I was high.

The rest of us continued, unperturbed. We passed by our school’s theater, which struck fear into my heart with its stark lights and gory red banners, with steps that climbed all the up to the sky like an Aztec temple.

One of our guys commented on the picturesque nature of the school’s library. It lay at the end of a vast green dotted with trees and hedges. It stood at the top of its steps with an air of majesty about its columns.

I opened my mouth for the first time that night: “I see you’re a classicist, eh?”

No one answered, and I shut up until we got back to the dorm.

The door closing behind my roommate and I, I started turning the light on and off as a reality check. When he asked what I was doing, I started rambling about the nature of reality and other philosophical nonsense excitedly. He then told me that at that moment, the only moment where I really felt like discussing philosophy, he could not discuss the only thing he ever talked about while sober.

The next day I woke up late for class, remembered I had an anthropology test, ran like a maniac to the building, failed the test, and giggled about it with my roommate.

OTHER BLITHER AND DRIBBLE: I’ve started an experiment in ornithology and marijuana which I have dubbed 100 Bird Facts. Check it out.

I’m a misanthrope, and that means that I hate you a little less than everyone else


I have an American coot. Perhaps I should explain. 

My highly esteemed sister is wildlife biologist. Her specialty is birds. On one excursion, they were sitting around the campfire, exchanging the local bird gossip, which I assume all bird-watchers do. Anyways, after a few PBRs I’m sure, they got to talking about relationships.


Goddamned bird.

After discussions of girlfriends and boyfriends, one woman talked about her coot. That is, a boy who looks like a boyfriend, swims like a boyfriend, but is not a boyfriend. A “thing”. 

My cousin was diagnosed with a case of a coot-ownership. Her coot was a college boy with a tall orange mohawk. My coot is a pierced-up punk. 

We dated for a couple months in spring, but we had to break up when I left town. 

He left Colorado and went back to Maryland. But, because the town he’s from is apparently a poisonous environment, he left. He had a job, got fired, freaked out, and flew out to Colorado four days before he had planned to visit his friends and I. 

I like this punk a lot, and its awesome that he’s back in Colorado. Its really the place to be if you love pot the way he and I do. But he did something amazing with his time visiting. Sitting on one of his hippie friend’s couchs, he surfed the Internets for a job. Within 48 hours he had one, a drastic difference from his job hunt in Maryland. He is now a “puzzle technician”. Whatever that means. Then he had to fly back to Maryland, pack up his shit, and drive back to Colorado. He gave me what was left of the Lemon G, which I plan on smoking later.

The last week and a half we crashed on the futon of a faggot friend of ours. His life was shoved into duffle bags in the back seat of his Ford Focus. We bought an ounce, smoked, and watched Archer while he hunted for an apartment, having clandestine sex. 

Why am I telling this to the hordes of the Internet? No idea. Perhaps because I want to share my happiness with someone. After all, you can’t expect a real-world person to understand when you say, “He’s my coot.” 

Its only a few short weeks before I can see him again. I’m experiencing a withdrawal from oxytocin, which all musical artists experience before they write a love song. If I so much as strum a guitar, I want you guys to shoot me.