Jesus. Fuck. You’re burning the fingernail on your thumb—again. I mean, at least you’re finally actually using a lighter. Better than the past, what, year and a half, during which you had to ask a friend to snap open the flame and light your hit, because you were so afraid you’d burn the fingernail on your thumb. And now look at you, independent, grown-up, and burning the fingernail on your thumb.
Okay. Just breathe now. Just breathe and inhale and hold it like you mean it. Orange fades back to greenish-gray, and you light again. Orange sticks around this time and you pull. Shit. It’s a bad one. Well, a good one, but a bad one. A harsh one. The kind that sends you past the moon and into the darker parts of outer space where lost balloons and monkey corpses go.
When did you..how did you get here? God, when you were a freshman this was the biggest taboo on the face of the planet. When you were a sophomore, it was just gross. A junior, and it just wasn’t your cup of tea. Leave it to the dropouts and the Beats. Then you were a senior and you dabbled but that was pretty much it. Alcohol bit harder, reminded you that you were alive. Didn’t leave you buzzing aimlessly in weak-pulsed Limbo.
Now what? Now it’s your thing? Now it’s your routine? That’s not you. And besides, you don’t have a thing. Your thing is not having a thing, and you wear your ambiguity proudly. Like an unremarkable gray windbreaker, you wear it in all sorts of weather. You wear it in the rain, when you need to hide. In the sunshine, when you don’t want to ruin the weather by contracting an awful rash of goosebumps. In the light wind, when it just seems expected. You wear it because everyone else wears windbreakers and it is awfully breezy today.
You guess what you’re trying to say— what I’m trying to say to you, me— is to stop caring so much about what other people, namely you you, think of yourself, or me, myself. My opinion of you, nor yours of me, really hold much weight. What matters is what I think of I, and what they, being all other living creatures, think of I. However, what you you think of me I, that really can’t matter so much. So you you just keep to yourself and me I will repack this bowl.
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