My fabulous weekend

"I'll just light a bowl, some incense, watch the Olympic clips I've missed today, and call it a night," I thought to myself as a lit my incense, and then I burned my fucking finger because I was that fucking high.

I'm staring at this embarrassing piece of skin right now. It's not terrible. It even has a metallic shine to it - looks grey. It didn't even hurt all that much, on account of me being so high. Although I must say, once I was being burned, the pain increased dramatically.

I had a wonderful weekend. Who can really remember what happens these days, though? I for sure can't. There were three nights of good food*, lots of laughs and girl time on Valentine's Day...all in a haze. Chinese New Year and Chinese New Year were quite enjoyable.

Hm, I really need to clean you.

Poor image quality**, but that's my fixed bong. Yup, fixed. It may or may not be true that it's a bit harder to keep the weed lit, but it works. Super glue is freaking amazing, like seriously, I'm going to have so much fun with it in the future.

The shards of glassed fit back on quite well. Unfortunately there was a third piece of glass missing that will be impossible to find. I double secured-it by wrapping it with duct tape (and then again with a Hello Kitty band-aid just for the cuteness factor -- Hello Kitty and duct tape, you can't go wrong).

Now that I think about it, why didn't I just fill the missing piece of glass with super glue? Oh, the things you suddenly think of when you're high. Fuck.

notes:

- the first image is from an interesting photo blog called photobytone.com.

- my blog needs some more variety so i hope you've appreciated a slightly different format for this post.

- in regards to my last post, i sound whiny and annoying. i get over things quite quickly, so i'm back to my old self at the moment. i would delete parts of it, but i'd like to think that my own blog allows for some freedom regarding my pickiness.

* * *

* homemade Chinese food deux fois, korean barbecue, and mongolian hot pot. trader joe's dark chocolate also gets an honorable mention from me :) paired with wine?? amazeballs!

** if i end up going to china this summer, i will for sure invest in a nice DSLR camera beforehand.

My bong has been castrated.

It happened shortly after I published my last post. I was successfully doing homework (I was very productive that night) and had to print something. Unfortunately, my attempts at plugging in my printer resulted in me knocking over my bong, which was on the floor, on carpet.

After knocking it over, I let out a short gasp, then felt relieved when I only saw some water and glass on the floor.

It was then that I saw a shard or two of glass.

The gasp that came out of my mouth was quite ghastly and surprised and strained.

I felt miserable. The part that broke is the part that holds the stem up. Fortunately my bong is very usable still, even if I hadn't used a bandaid to fix it. I will buy super glue and attempt to piece this little gem back together.

It will be okay, it will be okay, I want to tell myself, as I rock my body back and forth and rub my hands together like someone coming off a coke binge (not that I would know what that feels like).

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Anyway, I'm on an incredible sleep deficit right now. It happens every week. The past thirty days I have pulled at least 4-5 all nighters, if not more. If I am lucky, I can get more than 4 or 5 hours of sleep a night. No naps, either. It is completely miserable.

Typically I get one day a week of sleeping in, which is Saturday night to Sunday afternoon. I had a huge essay due today, so I straight read my books from 3 pm-2 am Monday night. Which is the night that I broke my sexy bong.

On Tuesday I woke up at 6 am after a four hour slumber because I had a hefty amount of Chinese homework due at 10. I did something pretentious and rather sophisticated, which was go to Peet's in the early AM. It was nice to be the youngest person there and feel comfortably invisible. All around me were older people having sophisticated talk. Three men nearby talked about the girlfriends of their younger lives. They were not vulgar at all. One man talked about how, no matter how fun a crazy, adventurous chick is, she will bore you after a few short years -- it is best to settle down with a nice girl. How nice! (I went to Starbucks today, by the way. Why is it that younger people hang out at Starbucks and older people hang out at Peet's?)

I had lunch with Felicia and went grocery shopping with her. Then we went to the library for god knows how long. I managed to finish both of my books and write an outline of my essay. I was so tired. My face felt like it was falling off and it was a real labor just to understand simple things. I was in bed by 12:30 am and felt as though I were about to have a psychological breakdown. My body hated me, but my mind was racing. It was the stress. I felt like screaming.

Fortunately I fell asleep, and my alarm woke me up at 4 am this morning. Writing my essay was painful, and I am disappointed in my quality of work because I know I could have done much better, and was forced to leave out much of what I had planned in my outline due to time constraints. So my essay probably seems messy, unfinished, and careless. But I turned it in.

I went to the bookstore to study (more like, I lost one of my books that I had bought for CHN 106, so I go to the bookstore and illegally study there by using their books). As I was walking among the shelves I felt incredibly sick. I felt lost in a white haze and felt my body starting to sway. Was I going to faint? I grabbed hold of one of the shelves and stood there for a good thirty seconds, allowing my body to come to. Then came incredible nausea. My head was pounding and had the strangest sensation. I don't really know how to describe it, except it felt like there was straight murk in my brain, swirling around in madness. I could almost hear it, it seemed.

I paid careful attention not to vomit on the girl in front of me, because I literally thought I was going to. I also felt utterly confused; I didn't know where to find my book. Skipping class was not an option as I had a mandatory quiz to take (quizzes sum up 50% of my class grade, and I am doing poorly in this class). Well, no, I'm not crazy. I realize that this dramatic effect on my health is enough reason not to go to class, quiz or no quiz. But I sat down after finding my book and started feeling much better and more normal. I ended up going to class and it wasn't horrible. I don't regret going.

I went home and slept, not setting an alarm, but woke up at 7, rather disappointed as I had only been asleep for 4 hours, and couldn't fall back asleep. That was fine though, as I am now awake since then and have plenty of schoolwork to do by tomorrow. I feel good, despite a pounding headache. I will try to get more sleep tonight.

I realize that this post was quite boring and rather pointless. However, I suppose I'm trying to cognitively tell myself I need to plan things better. I could benefit from utilizing my weekends better. At the same time, I feel I deserve to have some fun on the weekend. I could also work less, but I really don't work that much anyway, and I really need the $$$.

I've already decided not to do my internship this quarter. I can hardly fit it into my schedule anyway, so that makes sense. It also seems as though I won't be able to do my triathlon in April. At first, this idea killed me, but after the past few insufferable weeks, I think this is only fair to my body and mind. I can't afford to train right now, although I will try to hit the gym when I can still, or else I will go BONKERS.

I'd like to think my body and mind can endure anything, but in truth I'm only human and need to take myself less seriously!! Really, though, I looked utterly horrible today. I looked like Satan. I have never seen myself look so ugly. My skin was fucked up, blotchy, and dehydrated looking and my eyes were red. My hair looked drab. My mind, in a haze.

We are mid-quarter already, and the quarter is only going to get more lethal. I have finals in a month. That idea is crazy to me. I only have one more year of college left, but it seems I still haven't adjust to the insane quarter system.

I was so psyched to take humanities only courses this quarter, but I find that these classes are keeping me even more busy than the math/science classes I used to take. (This makes sense due to the insane amount of reading and writing I have to do for COM 135, but also because I care so much more this quarter about my grades and my major than I ever did about science and math.)

So I am tired and undernourished, sleeping in 2 to 4 hour cycles, and as a result, unhappy and agitated. Still confused about my future, still a pothead. Whatever, I will get over it. Resilience is key, bouncing back and proving yourself wrong is crucial. (Do you sense a contradiction here? I do.)

I am choosing my classes for next quarter tomorrow, and will be more careful in my planning.

Before even smoking out of my bong, I placed it on my lamp/table thing, next to my coffee cup. Such curiously looking things the two were. I admired them both.

"Good bong. Pretty bong." I said it with such sincerity and with a voice of the sentimental. Like someone talking to their pet cat. It was then that I noticed that my coffee cup had on it the decoration of two cats sitting on a bench, holding a batch of flowers. Cats! I was amused, I was sold.

Onto the smoking part.

Grape God was my sticky icky of choice. (Hoping it will give me some homeworking-doing power, still hoping) A pretty gnarly hybrid strain.

For whatever reason, a voice kept whimpering in the back of me head. Or should I say, "A little birdy told me..."? Well, a little birdy told me, Don't take a lot of hits. You don't really need it. Just take 2-3 and take more later.

Wasn't it just yesterday after the Super Bowl (and we were superbowling, best believe) that I had said that I always telling myself same thing, and how I fail at listening to myself?

And so it was, I took hella more hits than I had planned to. After each hit, I asked myself, do you really need to smoke more? Like, really? Yeah, I do need to smoke more, May, ya whore. (I smoke more.) Oh my god! How many hits was that already? You're already super high! How can you doubt your highness? There is no need to smoke any more cause you're already high!

Rational, annoying, plain jane May was like trippin' out!!!! So I said to her out loud, "Dude...you are TRIIIIIPPPIN!" And then, "Oh my god, I am trippin'," on accordance of me talking out loud to myself as if there was another 'myself' here.

I put my bong down, giggling in my mind.

Wait! Was I really giggling in my mind? Or was that real laughter? I focused in on my surroundings and heard a woman's laugh. Unmistakable female laughter, and not from me. My eyes widening, I heard another woman laughing as well.

"What the fuck," I said out loud. Immediately I remembered discussing hallucinations with a friend the other night.

But no. This was real laughter. I was enthralled and shocked at the idea of coincidence, that it was almost as if they could read my mind and start laughing at my thoughts.

But then I was like, NAH dude, it's just da fucking neighbors and they're in their backyards laughing at something. Big fucking deal.

And so it was, just the fucking neighbors.

If that's not a good indicator of how high I am right now, then I don't know what is.

...I am high off my flippin' mind.

A wink, a smile, some comforting words

May,

This is an extraordinary essay, beautifully written, powerfully argued, at once lucid, nuanced and passionate. You have beautifully used Schweithart's essay to open up both Pizan's and Sand's texts and have exceeded my expectations. Congratulations - what a powerful writer - what an amazing reader of texts you are. It was such a pleasure to read this paper.

Let me amuse myself and pretend that there is a God. For fifteen minutes, my heart had floated. It was if He had known (I struggle not to put He in quotations) of my flailing confidence, in myself, in my future. All my doubts as a "writer", a literature student. And to then be affirmed by an established intellectual. To be proud. To keep dreaming.

In my last post, I had mentioned that I had written something depressing. It was precisely this subject matter that I had written on; the thoughts ravaging my mind, all my capabilities, but more so, my incapabilities. A future of grey skies and routine. (The lyrics to Fitter, Happier sum it up quite well, as does another poem that is off the tip of my tongue, but I can't seem to remember the author or title, and it is driving me a bit bonkers.)

A confidence boost, indeed.

I spent the rest of the evening watching Animal Planet, reading, and taking breaks to discuss my cats. Typical me. A telephone conversation with Rachael (Hello). And now, bed.

There are good days,

There are bad days.

To come anew and chronicle my day

Goal: to write about something else other than weed...

I woke up much more tired than usual. While I regularly put my body through sleep-deprivation hell, the previous night of sleeping at 4 am and waking repeatedly throughout the night till 8 am really got to me. My lovely cats, hard to be angry at them for being the naturally boisterous and loud creatures that they are. It has become apparent the past few weeks that if I am to smoke to sleep, I do need to go for more sleep-friendly strains...

Who can recant a day's memories and make them seem interesting, beautiful even? Not me, for another day is just another day of boredom. A dull day.

Between class, I worked on an essay (yawn). My creative juices began to flow (this tends to happen when I'm tired) and I ended up writing a somewhat depressing piece, which I'll post some other time. It could be a little better, not that I'm willing to spend a lot more time on it. The utter pointlessness. Then more class. Then another. Yawn. My mother calls me to yell at me, and I feel terrible. But, yawn. I study at the bookstore and let my eyes travel upon new titles. I touch them, beautiful, lovely books.

But I am tired, you bore me.

Then darkness settled in. Darkness like curtains being drawn on a sunny day, and all you'd like to do is go out and play. But no. A refusal from some outside force, it might seem, or perhaps it is my natural inclination for this darkness. All at once, I felt -- alone, stupid, small, insignificant, crazy. Darkness, in the sheer darkness of past sunset, in Davis, CA, I felt I blended in with the shadows better than the color black. The chill in my bones. Ash and soot. In the worst mood possible. A leave-me-alone mood.

And I walked home and I tried to let it past. Thought of remedies and things that would make me feel better without lashing out on others. But it would not past, not for a while. I had some food and felt better, then smoked, and felt a whole lot better. Six hours and two bowls later, yeah, I feel a whole lot better.

I'm confused...confused as to why I feel this way, so frequently that it's almost every day. It often comes in moments, can last hours, can drag on through the whole day, draining my energy, my totality and vigor for life. I've been trying to be more forgiving to myself, but with some hard thought, I don't think it's normal to be as emotionally unstable as I have been feeling lately. Very fragile. It comes and goes. I'm functional. But 'depression' should not be a function of myself.

There is more I could say, but my brain aches and 3am has found its way to me. Incense lit, and cocooned till tomorrow. Another day to be tired. I hope for the best, tired person.

To Cesar (embellishing on my imagination, but I swear I'm sane)

Dear Cesar,

I have a fatty crush on you.

I was hoping you would be my budtender today, but you were doing the doorman thing. Darn.

The crazy black men loitered outside the club's doors that you were guarding. They said I was "hella cute" - but do you find me cute?

I was hoping so, as you were so nice to me last time. Do you remember me? Maybe not.

At first I found you only slightly attractive, but your friendly demeanor and open attitude to guiding my legal pot buying virginity won me over. I like everything about you - your affinity for hats, your inebriated expression (are you high when you work?), your tattooed wrists (how far do they go up?)...Your nice stare. How you called me "sweetie" and "sweetheart".

You're a very nice man, and you sell me drugs, and I like that, too.

Signed,

A Lonely Girl Looking For That Perfect Man To Smoke Me Out
(Stop Thinking I'm Pathetic)

I keep trying to categorize the variety of people that I see on my pot escapades (at first I typed poet escapades by mistake - how lovely).

At the evaluation clinic, they were various. There were the fragile 18-year olds in skater uniform. I can imagine them, stoned off their asses in front of their Call of Duty: Modern Warfare game, "Dude, you're eighteen now, you should get a pot card!" And in response, "Yeah bro, that's a great idea!"

There was the cholo/chola complex. The Haggard Old Man. The annoying hippie ("Yeah, man, pot's my right...and shit."). The Black Man Up To No Good.

The nervous young professional who looks like a graduate student studying philosophy or literature ("Oh shit, what am I doing here? Oh shit, I don't belong here"). He rubs his hands together, paces nervously.

And then there was me. Silent, awkward, potentially normal looking, me. I often feel quite strange in the position I've put myself in. Pot smoker, underachiever - There are certain labels you can attach.

My habit is to label things, to categorize, I suppose. In a class I have taken recently, we often discussed the American need to categorize: ethnicities, stereotypes, everything.

At the clinic today, I took advantage of my downtime as I waited in "line" (another thing I learned about this place: there isn't really a line), playing the part of the observer, the usual, inserting labels on those that I saw. Today, a mixture of grungy young white men, one black thug, some older men, and a person that was either a chick or a dude - I think, a tranny - that couldn't stop staring at him/herself on the mirrors that surround the clinic, a huge smile on his/her makeup-cladden face.

Cesar looks so cute today. A hat, dark urban style clothing, rolled up jeans over chucks. You're so cute.

My pheromones like weird, older men, I think.*

I'm a fucking creep, basically.

*For the record, he is most likely in his late twenties. And you know for me, any age is fair game!