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!