082218 Skipping the excuse, he launched right into his coffee cup. This is harder when stoned. I feel like a baby and an idiot for buying the pot. It--I just really don’t need it anymore. Maybe as an occasional exception, like at RFU and Sergio’s or whatever. But it’s not thing I need to *possess* anymore. But what will remind you of that if you don’t get stoned anymore? Did I mention this is harder now? Is it harder because of some traceable reason? some physiological effect of the plant interacting with my whatever it’s interacting with right now? Or because I’m playing over myself again, Velander’s mom? Remind me to check and see if that’s a pigeon or not yet. OK, just have to keep going, keep going despite the frizzy fingers and the pitted stomach and the sensation i’m heading into a cave that’s going to get really narrow and then start flooding. That’s what makes this hard: the claustrophobia. I’m worried about the girls, worried about myself, worried about the cats, worried about the carpets, worried about my mom, and my dad, and my stepmom, and my stepdad, and my stepsister. Worried. Just in general worried. And I wouldn’t be sitting here telling you this in precisely this way if I hadn’t smoked that stupid pot out of that overpriced electric pipe that I bought like a god damned fool, a god damned midlife crisis having fool who thinks that vaping some weed is going to make his hair grow back. The fuck. It’s like a middle aged man trying to relate to the kids by saying last year’s internet phrase. The wholly living fuck, man. I don’t know. She takes another puff, and the puff leaves her like Puff left Jack, and floats on down the fog covered soap opera street. Deeee, da deeeee, da deeeeeeee! See, I’m breaking the rule. I’m breaking the rule about “anything except pure nonsense.” I’m so sorry, but my stomach feels like butter and my hands feel like stale cucumbers. My brain, predictably, is watermelon just about to rot. I can’t think. You can do the pithy one liner on the pipe, but a coherent thought longer than Yeah, you get the idea. Somebody’s screaming at me. It’s the ghost of me. Why is she screaming? Because I’m not listening. To her? To her, to my speakers, to my kids, to anyone really. Are you sure you aren’t being a little hard on yourself? I probably am, but it’s just a pre-emptive defense you know. We’ve talked about this before, haven’t we? Yes, and can you remind me what it was we said self-loathing presages? Um, yes, I believe (stroking throat with sensuous thoughtfulness) we said it presaged the urge to give up. Ah yes. Thank you for reminding me. You’re quite welcome. And for reminding me why I come here. Namaste. And then back out in the street, the street lights were coming on. This was back when they were still the color of a moth’s wing. One by one they skate away from you as you look toward the vanishing point of the street. A familiar song pours out of someone’s open car door. You gotta have one thing you believe in. OK? That’s all I’m gonna say about it, he said, and I knew he was going to say more about it. At least, I hoped he had more than that, for fuck’s sake. Let’s see. Let’s go to the sauna he hangs out at, and see if he has anything else to say. Or are you too— Too what!? Oh, you know, a certain dumb bird that grows in little cages so we can eat them? You—you’re not—you’re not calling me— Aren’t I (eyebrow arched)? She checks her watch discreetly. Well, I know, I suppose we’re out of time. Almost. It’s as if we’re stalling, waiting for the big hand to come around. Look, I know you— No, it’s OK. Really. It’s fine. It doesn’t sound fine. Look. I just (yes?)— I just— (yes?) The minutes tick by slowly and stack themselves up neatly against the screen door. The cat bats one aside on her way out. She leaves the door open as usual, to let the moon get in, and roll all over the floor.