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Well, the printer still isn�t working. Can�t do my volumes. Can�t run my turn-around-time reports. Instead, I�ll sit at my desk and listen to Prodigy and type this other journal entry. Sounds like a much better time than those pesky administrative duties, anyway. Is it wrong for me to love the "Smack My Bitch Up" song this much? It makes me want to dance, which is rather inconvenient when I�m at my desk. It�s quiet enough, though, that I could turn it up just a little bit and pretend I was at X-Night instead of in my desk chair if I
My computer arrived on Wednesday! Just in time for me to walk out the door for Thanksgiving, so I haven�t had a chance to do much more than unpack it, install Office 2001 and the printer software and make sure all the connections work. Tonight, I�ll hook it up to the phone line for the first time and attempt to get online from home. What a nice thought�online from home. No more hiding my screen from my boss, no more panicked runs to the printer. I don�t know what I�ll do with myself.
I went to McDonald�s at lunchtime today. An evil place, McDonald�s. I�m going to feel ill all night now. Oh well�the fries were good. After I bought my evil lunch, I found a quiet place in the food court to eat. Someone had left a newspaper insert on the table, printed by www.whatsyourantidrug.com. I flipped through it while I was eating. All through the inside pages were poems, drawings and photographs by, of and about kids who are drug-free. The back page had a list of the top 10 reasons whatsyourantidrug.com feels people should stay away from marijuana. It all made me think of Glen.
Glen was the Artboy�s roommate. Perhaps some other day I�ll tell the full story of Glen (my friend burial #4�dead at 25 from a bicycle accident�wear your helmets, folks. Please), but today I�m just thinking about Glen and the cookies.
Glen was a sharer. He wanted to share whatever he had with whomever was around. I�d walk in and he�d say, "Jen�you�re just in time. I just made this grilled cheese sandwich for us!" and you�d have to eat half, or he�d be hurt. Glen was also a big smoker, and his sharing tendancies spread to his pot. He never wanted to get stoned alone. Most people were perfectly happy to join in. I wasn�t a smoker. He saw that as a challenge.
I have a very low tolerance for mind-altering chemicals. Three drinks and I�m either throwing up or passing out. I had to stop taking my sinus medication because it made me act like a speed freak. I�ve seen my friends wander around in a mushroom-based blissful fog. I�ve begged the Artboy and his friend not to drive away on an acid-fueled roadtrip. I saw firsthand what an evening is like when you spend it with someone who�s totally coked out. I never had an urge to participate in any of it. My dad had his first heart attack at 36, mostly resulting from his 22-year 2-pack-per-day cigarette habit. I�ve never smoked a cigarette in my life. Nor did I intend to ever smoke a joint. I wasn�t interested in inhaling the smoke.
One night, I walked into the house to find Glen and the Artboy in the kitchen, giggling like schoolgirls in front of the oven. Glen smiled at me and said, "I made you a special cookie, Jen. No chips, just the way you like it!" They�d sauteed up about a quarter ounce and mixed it in the cookie dough. The batch produced seven giant cookies, one of which was for me. I looked at it, then at the Artboy, then at Glen, and took a bite.
Once I got past the "sticks" in the dough, the cookie didn�t seem much different than the usual ones Glen made. I ate almost the whole thing sitting in the kitchen, surrounded by the Artboy and my other friends. After a while, we all drifted to different parts of the house for a while. The Artboy led me upstairs, as he wanted to introduce me to the wonders of stoned sex. So far, so good. I couldn�t remember why I�d protested so much.
Dressed again, Artboy and I wandered into the kitchen, where his roommate Ad-Rock was on the phone with Erin, his annoying ex-girlfriend. Erin droned on and on, despite Ad�s repeated protests that he was "really stoned!" Artboy picked up a slingshot off the counter and put it on like a hat, the handle sticking out in front of his face like a horn. "Look, I�m a unicorn!" he laughed. "No you�re not," I protested, "you�re my stoned boyfriend with a slingshot on your head."
Artboy yelled to Ad, "Hey�what do you think? Am I a unicorn or a stoned boyfriend with a slingshot on my head?" Ad asked Erin to hold on, looked at us, laughed hysterically for a minute, then said, "Hold on, Erin. Okay�what was the question again?" We all dissolved into laughter. Erin hung up. I remember thinking how incredibly funny it all was.
A few minutes later, one of the other residents came in, looking for company for his Tower Records trip. Artboy wisely decided I might not be ready to venture out the door, as I seemed to be getting more and more unsteady as the night wore on. While they talked about my leaving the house, I picked up a kiwi from the counter.
The kiwi looked good. The kiwi looked delicious. In fact, I�d never seen anything more appetizing than the kiwi ever. All I had to do was peel it. I picked up the paring knife and started to cut. It was an amazingly tough kiwi to peel. With all my concentration, I moved the knife carefully around the kiwi�s skin. I could see the green goodness inside. Everything but the kiwi started to disappear. I decided the floor was a great place to peel. Of course, once I sat down, the sitting became much better than the peeling, then I didn�t quite know where the kiwi had gone, but hey�the kitchen was spinning, and maybe laying down on the floor would be better, and now it might stop if I pull my knees up real close to my chest, and ohmigod, I think I�m going to die. I couldn�t catch my breath. Everything was fuzzy. I called to the Artboy, who crouched down next to me and cradled my head. "It�s okay, Jennifer�you�re fine. This happens sometimes. Don�t panic."
I�d never had a panic attack before. Still not sure exactly what it was, but I hope I never have another one again.
Eventually, Artboy talked me off the floor and coaxed me back up into his bed, where I fell into an uneasy sleep. I woke up the next morning and drove home, still stoned. I came to work and stayed all day, still stoned. My boss told me I looked terrible and wanted to send me to employee health, but I panicked, paranoid by then that the nurse would take one look at me and send me into mandatory drug rehab. I stayed all day, then drove to my mom�s house, still stoned. She and I met my stepfather and stepbrother at the movies. I watched "Muppet Treasure Island". Still stoned. Lots of bright colors, loud music, movement. I was tripping. The four of us went to dinner. I was still stoned. After dinner, I drove back, still stoned, to the Artboy�s house. He�d been paging me frantically all night. I walked in, still stoned, announced jokingly (mostly) to Artboy and his roommates that I hated them all, then crawled upstairs to go to sleep. The Artboy crept up and slid in next to me, attempting to soothe my ruffled spirit. The next day, he put the slingshot back on his head and laughingly told me I�d been right�he wasn�t a unicorn. It took a couple minutes to bring the conversation back to the foreground in my muddled head.
That was the first of my two stoned experiences. The second took place about six months later at a party in their house. I was mad at the Artboy for some forgotten reason. Drunk and vengeful, I asked Glen if he�d go smoke with me. Word that I wanted to head to the Smoking Lounge (Glen�s bedroom and marijuana HQ) spread through the party rather quickly, and soon I had an audience. We got upstairs and he got me stoned before the Artboy caught wind of what was happening. By the time he made it to the third floor, I was done. I don�t remember most of the remainder of the evening, other than that I wasn�t mad at the Artboy any more, and I seemed to have found a better grasp on that wonderment he�d tried to show me the last time.
The Boyfriend doesn�t drink at all. Nor does he smoke, or do any other drugs. This is a good thing. I don�t miss dealing with the hanging smell, or the vacant stare and nonexistent short-term memory, or the threat of spilled bongwater in my shoes (I lost two pairs of shoes that way. Stoners can be clumsy). But I�m not sorry I ate the cookie. If nothing else, I�ll never look at a slingshot quite the same way!
(Next Artboy entry here)
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