For What It’s Not Worth. Or is it?
Hash brownies were a hit. But I can’t help but wonder whether it was worth an ounce. Sure, I couldn’t neurologically get my shit together to get up off of the couch, and yeah, I may have sent some pretty LOL txts that may have painted me in a much more promiscuous shade. But hot damn that was one expensive fucking batch of brownies. It really runs rings around eating a box of macaroons when you think about it. For the first time in 22 years I may have felt upscale. May. And for the record, I’m not even an inch of a whore; my sexual prudence was jeopardized by the fault of being more stoned than a brave Afghan woman declaring her human rights and then using this time to ensue one proclamation of love with one proposition of - what others usually call a good night - fun. In both instances I was shut down. And in both instances I came out feeling like cheap hooker trash. That’s what a long haul of being expertly chaste gets you. How can I not see this as something kind of funky?
He or She or They (the powers to be) either want me to stay dry and keep my love to myself, or get high and stay dry, attempt to get wet but ultimately learn that nobody wants to go dancing in the rain with me for reasons unsettled, and then after a while get tired of dancing in the rain by myself so retreat to deal with the ravenous case of accelerated pneumonia. These mysterious trends can only speak waves to my suspicions of Divine intervention, hey.
