Someone stole my pot plant last night! I went outside this morning and all that was left was a little short stubby stick of green and brown stuck out of the ground where my treasure had been. In happier, more intoxicated times, it looked like this:
I had such dreams for my plant. Just a couple of days ago, my house husbands and cannabis consultants. Nick and Dave, reported that my plant was a gal after all, bursting with little buds, high in the air, capable of, after a little drying and rolling, making me and a few others high ourselves. According to Nick, my little bit of greenery could produce thirty to forty joints, which, I think (not that I know....), could produce quite a few dollars for my pocketbook.
Ahh, but that wasn't my idea -- I didn't want to get rich, I wanted to get stoned, preferably with a few select friends who would really appreciate this find -- you know who you are... -- and who would also, just as important, keep me from imagining myself as the lead character in Psycho, under the shower or not. You see, my own personal history with marijuana has featured plenty of paranoia -- I was sort of a misfit with all the other "free spirits" on the 3rd floor of Brown at UMass in 1974.
But this was my grass, just about literally -- how could I not smoke it? I had it all planned -- I'd sneak out in the middle of the night, cut the leaves down, bring them in to dry, and plan my pot party. But that dream has gone up in flames, or more likely down a neighbor's lungs. I guess I can hope they'll do the neighborly thing and invite me over to smoke MY grass.
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