Tea in England

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I have been on the hunt for grass for months now. Too long have I gotten inappropriately drunk at the British pubs. Too long have I sadly looked up the stoner tag on Tumblr.

tea

My interest is that of the connoisseur. I wanted to compare what the Brits were smoking to that of highly superior Colorado weed. I was wrong. My tolerance had dropped drastically, rendering any sense of superiority I had born meaningless.

I hounded after my few acquaintances in England. One girl, an American I know, lives in a flat with British types that rage, as far I can surmise. They have a history of throwing lemons and melons out of the window, on the kitchen floor, it sounds like a good time. They go into their bathroom and turn the shower on and light up a j, to diffuse the smoke in the steam. They practice some strange rite of passage known as a “windmill”, where they take a long drag, hold it, and spin in circles till they’re deliriously dizzy. This also sounds like fun.

I asked my flatmates. They knew nothing.

I finally got an invite to a flat party in my complex. They were pre-drinking before going to the club, which I was not into. I shared the remnants of a bottle of Jack with a friend, and hung out on the balcony. A Brit poked fun at my less than admirable roll-up cig, and then offered to roll me one. In seconds he transformed the paper, the filter, and the tobacco into a splinter-sized stick. All around me I could smell the earthy scent of cannabis. A woman gave her joint to the man that I was talking to and went inside. I asked for some puffs, which he obliged me. It was at that party that I met my last hook-up, a man with long curly ginger hair. We chatted about Burroughs and dabs.

Several weeks later, I invited him out for a couple of drinks. We went out to a couple of pubs, drinking an unsteady line of double gin and tonics. We discussed Burroughs and Ginsberg and Stephen King and Lovecraft and Arthur Machen. We talked about the legalization in Colorado. Eventually we landed at a place called the Mischief. And then he invited me to come back to his place to … (wait for it) SMOKE.

We got to the flat. In his room he had stacks upon stacks of books. He showed me that he was currently reading The Doors of Perception and I knew he was a homie. Other indicators included the Fear and Loathing and the Dark Side of the Moon posters. He had the first pipe with resin in it that I had seen in months. He had run out of tobacco, so I had popped back into my flat to retrieve my own. He had said he was bad at rolling, but the spliff he produced was long and magnificent. Because I had seen the coppers with their silly hats walking around, I kept lighting cigarettes to hid the scent, but he seemed unfazed. Before long, I was very high. The kind where your thoughts are speeding through your skull too fast to register, where your head disconnects from your body and your legs start buzzing. It was after I had said “Poetry should be ephemeral” and before he had gotten the wine that I started feeling sick. I ran to the women’s toilet and cleaned up after myself. The toilet was broken, which gave me painful paranoia. I went back into the kitchen and we sat at the table, both of our heads in our hands. I said that I thought I should call it a night. It was as I was saying good night that vomit again filled my throat and I  ran to the men’s bathroom and again emptied my stomach. I embarrassingly wished him a good night again.

At home I lay on the bed and tried to keep the room from spinning, with a shitty sitcom from Netflix playing to an unwatching audience.

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Ornithology whilst stoned

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I guess I haven’t posted about this yet here.

This is my side project, which I’m going to update this weekend, if you care to check it out.

From the first post of the blog:

“This blog is an exercise in recall, ornithology, and cannabis. This is the shtick: every time I smoke marijuana, I shall post a number of facts about birds that I keep on hand in my mind. You know, a mind-hand. Ahem. I will also post what I was smoking. Please, please join me on this high adventure of a bird-brained twenty-something.”

If that sounds like something which would interest you, check it out.

Roll call

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PUNK ETHICS! DRUGS! ADVENTURE!

Now that I have your attention, I’m trying really hard to find other bloggers who are interested in some of the above things. If you are interested, we should be friends! Comment with a link to your blog!

OTHER INTERESTS: ZINES, DIY, MIXOLOGY, ALCOHOL, URBAN FANTASY, SELF-PUBLISHING, WEED, SATAN, CREATIVE NONFICTION, SOCIALLY CONSCIOUS WRITING, QUEERNESS

Weirdos need each other. I know you’re out there somewhere.

Drag Day – Part 2

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Check out the first part here.

The show was over, the day had been long, but the night would make it longer still. We trudged back to the car, our sneakers freezing in the snow.

The party was at a friend’s, and we were one of the first to arrive. As people started filing in, we put Die Antwoord’s “Fatty Boom Boom” on the stereo to liven things up. The hostess was not amused. A slew of twenty people came in, and went for the liquor. I know a lot of people in the town’s queer community, but I didn’t know any of these fuckers. Hoss was getting the keg of PBR ready.

monkeys and shit

Drinks in hand, we went outside for a cig. The party’s number tripled, the sea of queerdom pushing out more people onto the balcony with us. It wasn’t long before the weed came out. A girl who was smoking in state for the first time shared her bowl with us. A couple we know shared a joint with us, which they dropped, and a woman with small hands had to pick it out of the boards of the balcony. I distinctly remember yelling at someone, calling them “silly prickly pear.”

Through the glass door we could see that a game of spin the bottle or Fuck the Dealer or something, the entirety of the living room floor full of people sitting cross-legged. Someone walked back inside, and a cheer of multitudes, like a battle cry, escaped the apartment. I had been drinking all day, so I shouted “Crikey!”. What can I say? It is in my nature to cry inane things when I’m inebriated.

The after-party was growing more and more insane. Somehow the whole girl’s rugby team from the local college was inside. (I later learned that they kind of show up everywhere. Good on you, female rugby team.) The crowd was getting much drunker, and rowdier. We decided to follow a guy who had been wasted at the show, devouring his boyfriend’s face (in a sexual manner, of course), and was now stumbling around the party. It was partly a matter of conscientiousness, but mostly it was just free fun.

I remember it was after seeing the pile of shoes that I started freaking out. It was gigantic. Clogs, heels, chucks, Uggs, and boots flooded the hallway to the entrance. The pile was at least one foot deep, and several feet across (get it?). It may have also had something to do with a bunch of youthful gays running around and pouring their tearful hearts and souls into drunken phone calls. With a gay couple with whom we are friends, and a couple beers, we shoved through the crowd of rowdy drunks.

We went over to a friend’s vacant house to wait out the storm. There was Netflix, thank God, and a bong. While we were looting her house for weed, I had several communal nature moments via her cat. Hoss found the weed, and the light of the heavens shone on his face.

After a while, we went back to the party. Things had happened, to be sure. When the host saw me, he gave a cry of relief and hugged me. I asked him what the sitch was. There was word of some skinny guy who had passed out drunk in the snow, and the cops had shown up, and the host thought I was dead.

Meanwhile, Hoss was getting into a drinking contest with some motherfucker with flowers in his beard, and was putting him in his place. The guy was out before the third shot.

Then, too drunk to drive, we went back to crashing in the missing friend’s house, the cats humping our legs as we slept.

Back at Rhadamanthus Acres

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After a grueling five months away, I have come back to my home, beautiful Rhadamanthus Acres.

rhadamanthus acres

Isn’t it quaint?

It’s been three days since I came home. There are several things that I have done knock out one of the many dreary hours that I will have to spend here.

I’ve been quitting cigarettes. The ranch is a 45 minute drive removed from any place where you could buy a pack, so I may as well make good use of my isolation. It’s going pretty well.

Weed has been integral to this process. It may be fair to say that it is integral to all of my processes, if I’m being honest with myself. I got my hands on some Sour D, which soothes my cravings and helps me not be a caterwauling rage monster with my family.

I’ve been writing a bunch of poetry as well. Short stuff, very emo, douchey, I think. Very middle school. Maybe I’ll post them on Twitter or something.

I’ve been celebrating Christmas with my family, I guess. I choose to supplicate the darker aspects of the holiday (see below), while my family has forced me to make tea out of a pot shaped like a snow-woman. A CHEERY, DELIGHTFULLY PLUMP, SNOW-WOMAN.

All hail the demonic companion of Saint (?) Nicholas, Krampus. From the wonderfully talented Melita Curphy‘s website.

I have also devoured most of the third series of American Horror Story. I love the aesthetic of it, all gothic-hipster, and the cast smokes enough cigarettes for them and everyone else I know, so its very therapeutic. I do love the cigarette dispenser’s they keep in their manor.

So nifty.

I finished Mindy Kaling’s Is Everything Hanging Out Without Me (And Other Concerns)I’m a big fan of The Office and I really enjoyed it. She’s writes like she doesn’t give a fuck, and I respect that.

I do need to write some queer urban fantasy, though, if I am to truly achieve the transcendence of the uber-hipster. I’m thinking about including a Kinky Krampus.

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.