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I can't tell if I'm in withdrawal from weed or if I've just got a cold ... or if they're the same thing: one the symptom of the other. Whatever the answer, I feel like crap. So here I am, midnight of mid-October, sitting in front of my computer -- head pushing neck persecuting shoulders crushing back pinching spine creating pain surfacing on face grimacing; nose a phantom faucet: acting on its own accord; eyes, red, scratchy, and watery; clammy fingers, sticking to the k, e, y, b, o, a, r, d -- writing about my current condition.
It was a pleasure to burn -- blaze, hit, light-up, puff the magic dragon -- all that good stuff. My last dance with Mary Jane was during the final week of summer, with my brother. We were at the Cape in this house we've rented the past ten years. It's real old, real big. We call it The Bungalow, as if there's only one in the world.
I shared a blunt with my brother that night. He was going off to Skidmore College the next morning. This was basically our last night together until Thanksgiving, so I let him choose our course of action. That's how we ended up there on the roof: lying on those shingles, greenheads doing drive-bys, puffing and passing. It was real mellow and peaceful and everything. No worries up there.
NEXT
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