Sometimes I’m scared.

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This spring, Hoss and I went to the local university’s queer formal. It was a pretty normal thing: lots of queers dancing and screaming to songs that were in a grey zone of being incredibly gay while not being gay enough. If I can’t recognize the singer, you need to up the gay. I drank some cake-flavored vodka in a parking lot with a genderfuck and stood around smoking, while amateur drag queens and a tiny little Amadeus climbed up the steps. Hoss and I aren’t much for dancing, so we headed home. On the way out, I think he dared me to or I just have the natural inclination to steal things (shrug), but I grabbed a life-size Hello Kitty balloon on the way out. We ran down the street with her trailing behind us in the wind, shoved her into the car, and drove to Hoss’s apartment where she has remained ever since.

In the arms of an angel ...

In the arms of an angel …

But in all seriousness, this is not something to be taken lightly. Hoss’s apartment was clearly haunted before, what with the flickering light bulbs and the Wilhelm screams, and we clearly just gave the demon a vessel.

As time passed, Kitty-san’s power grew. Three weeks ago, I was alone in the apartment writing, and she was just hopping around the room, floating around the kitchen. One time, when I looked up, she was gone. This naturally made me nervous, so I went to look for her, figuring that it was better to know where a demon is than to not know. She had floated into the bedroom, looking into the closet with those uncannily wide set eyes. She probably wanted my leather daddy jacket, if I had to guess. She follows me around the house as I get ready every morning. Since basically everyone who lives in the apartment is MIA, Kitty-san the demon is our new roommate. Visitors regularly punch her and tackle her, putting our very immortal souls in danger.

Did I mention that she only has one leg? SpoooOooOopy!

Did I mention that she only has one leg? SpoooOooOopy!

Juana de Mary is my only true love

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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.