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Day Twenty-Nine

Nearly a week without my own pot supply.. Moved onto Robitussen. Going through a bottle of this shit a night.

And Susan messaged me again today. She wants me to bring the computer to her place tomorrow— not just to give it to her at work. So it sounds like she wants to bang. You know, besides the part where she clearly wants to bang me.

Today’s message on our work’s instant messaging system was awkward:

Do u want 2 C me naked?

I mean, I responded “yes”, but I can just check out Susan’s laptop any time I want if I want to see her naked. And I’m starting to get the feeling that Susan is either retarded or very horny because there’s absolutely nothing wrong with her computer.

Still haven’t told Katy about Susan. What’s weird is that Katy knows I have a blog but she hasn’t asked to see it or anything. Sometimes I send her the drafts of what I’m writing to see if there’s anything wrong with my phrasing…but she never asks for my blog’s location on the web.

I mean, I’ve been smart about which blogs I send her— sometimes I send her things I’m not going to post, like this:

St. Patrick’s Day is stupid. I don’t think anybody knows what it’s about. Every year people give me a different reason or fun fact about what St. Patrick’s Day is really like or how they really do it in Ireland. They always tell me it’s another reason to drink or it’s another reason to celebrate Irish culture through drinking or how it’s another reason to look at all the idiots who think that Irish culture is about drinking. Personally, it was a terrifying day on the road because it is a Sunday and everybody has work tomorrow so they’s alls gots themselves all blotto-like during the dey thime; it wasn’t like I could hide from the drunks on the road because they were going to be asleep at night.

But then I was reminded of something my therapist once told me: “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.”

And that I did. At the local Wal-Mart.

Wal-Mart is a fantastic place but it’s really hard to maneuver when you’re high as an Indian kite. The chief issue is concentration—all of those bright lights are designed to fuck with consumers and confuse them when they’re making their purchasing decisions. They end up taking more time in front of items trying to decide which model they want—the pricier one or the cheaper one. The more time they spend in front of the pricier one the higher chance they will buy it. Also, the bright lights make it hard to focus on just one item; you are likely to purchase other items that become unintentional souvenirs of your Wal-Mart visit because your eyes don’t have an easy place to rest in a store that isn’t a number trying to sell you something for “cheap”.

All of this makes Wal-Mart one of the more confusing places to be walking around high already, but on St. Patrick’s day the place reminded me of an orphanage that also doubles as the city pound that can’t afford separate cages for the animals and children.

Actually, I don’t want to talk about this anymore.

There was a commercial on the television today for the Spicy McChicken sandwich at McDonald’s for only $1.00. In my area we haven’t had Spicy McChickens before, thus I’ve never had one because I am a hermit. Now, I don’t trust commercials but I had been a rampaging McChicken and McDouble pervert only six (6) days prior.

Well, the Spicy McChicken was actually a dollar but I didn’t spend just a dollar because I got two Spicy McChickens, a McDouble with no onions, and California State sales tax. It was like three (3) dollars.

I didn’t just go into Wal-Mart earlier all high-like just for fun, by the way. I needed a bike helmet so I could go biking. Forgot I had one on the balcony for three years. Or, was it two on the balcony for five? Division was supposed to make this easier to remember. Get back to me on the details—I’ve got two bikes, OK?

I want to go biking so I need to buy a helmet or I will get hit by a car and die. Getting hit by a car is not an option but dying is. Buy a helmet, motherfucker. You’d do it if your dick was on your forehead. But that imaginary dick on your forehead isn’t so easy to imagine if your brain can’t will it because of cerebelleus-rhectioid damage, and your skull can only do so much to a Cadillac’s grill. For itself.

Again, buy a helmet.

The night will be ending, I guess, after Katy signs onto Skype and tells me about her day. We promised to talk at 10:00pm her time and it’s…10:30pm our time. My time.

Hm. Will get back to you on that, imaginary readers. I imagine you guys with imaginary dicks on your foreheads. But I have to imagine the dicks on your foreheads for you because you didn’t heed my warnings about buying helmets earlier and now you’re stuck, as a vegetable, reading this. It’s not easy imagining all of these dicks on your foreheads but I’ll do it if I have to. To prove this point. To prove any point.

I think I had like, 30 cigarettes today.


And this shit doesn’t bother her at all, apparently. Or worry her. Maybe I’m with the wrong person.