Tag Archives: weed

Coping with my disability

19 Apr

I believe in honesty. I like receiving it. If it ain’t so nice, I try to find a lesson in it. And when I don’t, I cry a little, but I’m always fine. And I appreciate knowing.  I like telling the truth too. At least I try to do it. Then if it fails, I try again a different way.

It would be fair to say that I’ve been feeling rather heavy and unwanted pressure lately. Pressure from work, pressure from my mother who wants me to be perfect, but it ain’t happening. Then she guilt-trips me with her sadness and somehow I end up the bad guy. Top that with the fact I decided to skip the placebo birth control pill week and jump right into another pack, and sure, I might agree I may have been going through a short phase of insanity for the past few days.

Given the circumstances, I decided to take my own advice and self-medicate. Problem is – as with anything – the more you do it, the more you need to get to where you wanna be with it. You follow?

Come home from work, change out of work clothes, roll a spliff, and smoke it while walking the dog: my routine for the past 4 or so days. We walk around Allston/Brighton with the Russian grandmothers strolling arm-in-arm down the wide, Spring-blooming-lined sidewalk. And the hipsters, and the homeless, and the school kids sneaking off to Ringer Park where they get high and fool around; where the homeless will soon set up camp, mattress and all, come summertime. With the middle-aged Asian men who crouch down on the building steps and chain smoke. I’m high, rather smiley, wearing a hoodie, and have the habit of looking at everyone and… keep looking. I smile at them, squinty-eyed and genuine, and never take for granted the happiness they shine back at me. Sometimes they’re a little older, pudgier, and Mexican, in which case, they might smile AND raise eyebrows, uttering a deep, masculine “Hhhelloo!” Mmmm… si, papi.

All is peaceful and friendly, breezy and sweet during our long walk, until we arrive at CVS.

Last Friday I was feeling particularly drawn to a pint of creme brulee Haagen Dazs, or a  Mango Tango Odwalla, or maybe crayons, markers, colored pencils and drawing paper so I can draw and color late at night. You just never know. CVS presents limitless possibilities. As such, if I were to – as I did – combine a long walk with Tori, being high, and going to CVS all cracked out to look at crayons, I might be in there for 10-15 minutes instead of 2-3. I believe it is perfectly fine for a dog to be tied up at a safe place outside of an establishment while its owner shops. So I exercise this reasoning, tie her outside, and walk in. She’s barking. I’m telling myself to hurry up. And she’s barking. But the birthday cards I just decided to get and the crayons are all the way in the back, where I can’t hear her. So I browse and browse, until I hear the store manager on the mic:

IF THERE’S SOMEONE HERE WITH A DOG, CAN YOU PLEASE COME GET YOUR DOG?

A guy is standing outside, taking the last drag off his cigarette and tells me, “just bring her in. If they ask, tell them she’s a service dog.”

I generally bring her into to the liquor and convenience stores in the neighborhood, but never CVS, with its very legible SERVICE DOGS ONLY ALLOWED sign. And I generally, when I can, like to play by the rules. This, however, seemed rather unreasonable; you only let my dog in if I’m disabled, and you won’t let her sit outside barking either.

Drastic measures must be saved for drastic moments. On Monday night i found myself back at CVS. High as I was, eyes squinty and red, I came up with my truth:

I’m disabled. This is my service dog. I smoke too much weed and I lose track of time, and I overspend on crayons and ice cream, so she’s here for my health and safety.  Protection as well. Try and kick me out, see what she does to you.

I walked in, head held high, doggie at my heel. Quiet, subservient, alert; service dog in her pink harness leading disabled, cracked out young woman, as she tours the pharmacy, snacks, and magazine aisles. We are harmless. We bring joy and smiles. The manager says nothing. We stroll on back home.

Except today. I skipped the weed, went boxing, and decided to try a little more writing. This feels good too. Maybe I’ll give it another go tomorrow.

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Turning the page

1 Apr

I attended Catholic school as a child. My teachers were nuns and behind school grounds was the convent where they lived and worshiped. My school friends were God-fearing children and though I never voiced it, I always felt a bit like a scratch-and-sniff among regular stickers for not having a religious family.

I did pray to God every night when I was little, but as I grew older, I steered away from Him and closer to Freddy Mercury. That’s when I started down my cycle of darkness. What followed were years of unshamefacedness and revelry. I’ve consumed alcohol, tobacco, marijuana and other illicit substances, I’ve lied, worn whorish clothing, danced to provocative music, and supported abortion. All offensive activities that have been proven to lead to one thing only: porneia.

Foolishly thinking that I could make myself happy on my own, I failed to see that without lighting the divine spark in my heart, without letting Jesus in, I could never find quietude. I’ve been eager to speak when I should be silent. I’ve raised my head in defiance when I should’ve bowed in servitude. I’ve read extensively on politics and other subjects that simply don’t concern a woman. It’s been exhausting to try wearing pants fit for a man when I should actually put on a simple conservative dress and bake cookies.

My lifestyle has warranted me years of loneliness; I have no husband to provide for me and no children to bring meaning to my life.  When I look at  pictures of my past, I’m ashamed of the  self-absorbed, sexually suggestive exuberance that permeates the photos.

exposing flesh

simulating fellatio

being a slut

passing out with alcohol & loud music

These are photos of a whore who has lost the righteous path of the Lord. I don’t need to wait until January 1st to change my life around. God will accept me today. I have done some research (not a lot, because I understand that too much thinking leads to confusion) and am ready to wash my hands with the blood of Christ . To show the Holy Spirit how committed I am, I found some things I can do until I get a proper blessing at Church. These include:

– disposing of all my non-cotton clothing.
Thou shalt not wear clothes of mixed fibers. (Leviticus 19:19)

– hitting Tori when she’s a bad girl.
Thou shalt inflict corporal punishment on your children. (Proverbs 13-29)

– going vegetarian all the way. If Jesus wants it, so it shall be.
Thou shalt not eat pork, shrimp, lobster, or any shellfish. (Leviticus 11:7-12)

– of course, no sex while on my period.
If a man lies with a woman during her sickness and uncovers her nakedness, he has exposed her flow, and she has uncovered the flow of her blood. Both of them shall be cut off from their people. (Leviticus 20:18)

– oh wait, no sex at all!
Put to death, therefore, whatever belongs to your earthly nature: sexual immorality, impurity, lust, evil desires and greed, which is idolatry. (Colossians 3:5)

– practicing silence. this will be hard. can i still blog, though?
“Let the women learn in silence with all subjection. But I suffer not a woman to teach, nor to usurp authority over the man, but to be in silence.”

– being sad.
“Unto the woman he said, I will greatly multiply thy sorrow and thy conception; in sorrow thou shalt bring forth children; and thy desire shall be to thy husband, and he shall rule over thee.”

– smoking weed
And God said, Behold, I have given you every herb bearing seed, which is upon the face of all the earth, and every tree, in the which is the fruit of a tree yielding seed; to you it shall be for meat. (Genesis 1:29)

It may seem like a lot at first, but I’m confident that the more things I have to follow, the less thinking I’ll have to do and the more devoted I’ll be. See how easy it is to finally find happiness?

You’re so lame… you probably think this post is about you

22 Mar

I’m not mentally prepared for vacation.  OK, that didn’t work.

I’m pretty tired and I want to make sure I get a good night’s rest on my first night of vacation. Nope, still not good.

I’m a creature of habit and I enjoy being alone… WTF? no.

I’m feeling pretty fucking lame and so incredibly lazy, I wonder if I’ll have the energy to walk to the bathroom when the need arises. Well aware there is no excuse for my behavior, but I’ll continue to engage in it for the duration of the night.  That’s better.

It is true that I chose to smoke some weed and watch Anchorman at 11 last night when I should’ve been packing and tidying up my apartment. It is not at all false that I had only three hours of sleep before hurrying to catch a taxi and make it just in time for my flight. It would be accurate to state that my friends and I have been talking about and looking forward to this break for AT LEAST the last eight weeks. And yet… it is my first night in Miami and I’m in the condo by myself in “lounge boxers” and tank top, eating a sandwich and drinking a beer. Just as I would’ve if I were home – really, the only thing missing is Tori at my foot. I thought of watching a little TV since I don’t have cable at home, but had to shut that off too.

So I took the day off to travel to Miami and do the exact same thing as I do when home. And yes, alone. Because everyone else is using common sense and is out and about, soaking up the carefreeness in the air.

There is no particular reason; I’m not sad, I’m not depressed, I’m not PMSing. I’m pretty freaking content, actually. We’ll just call it a glitch –  a Butt Baby malfunction that will surely be adjusted by sunrise.

From tomorrow on, I promise to be just as absurd, inappropriate, kittenish, and friendly as I’m supposed to be. Because it’s who I am, really – a miracle baby, born from the butt to bring joy and nonsense to all those she befriends (and hell to those she doesn’t… but that’s *so* rare). Just not tonight, I guess. Tonight I’m lame (and loving it).

An experiment: three cups of coffee, one muffin and one cookie. And a pipe.

15 Mar

Oooooh Panera, how I adore thee. You have a large parking lot, filled with SUVs that mask my presence inside a tiny hatchback, engaging in illicit behaviors. There’s one of you in nearly every town, and you all have wi-fi. You also offer free refills on coffee (I think. If you don’t, sorry, I didn’t know), delicious vegetarian options, muffins, cookies… comfy seats one can almost fall asleep in, but not. You have Brazilian cooks that speak amongst themselves in Portuguese, thinking I don’t understand what they’re saying. It is true that you have child-proof thingies on every outlet, but it’s OK; I was only embarrassed once, and learned how to operate them from then on out.

I’ve caught a glimpse of the future, thanks to you. I saw myself as one of the elderly in mid-day café gatherings, sporting my very own distinguished-old-person hat, laughing quietly at the 30-something middle manager guy who pretends to listen to his dull boss while he’s really taking peeks at the cute girl who may or may not be slightly intoxicated while staring at her laptop for hours, enjoying the day off courtesy of a little plumbing issue at the office.

Thanks to you, Panera, the soundness of my “sorry, mom, I don’t think there will be any grandkids for you from me” position is reaffirmed. The mother of two who can’t get any reading done because the little ones haven’t mastered a fork just yet is a reminder that dogs make better babies for me. I’d hate to give my child salmonella for feeding it milk in a dirty bottle. Is that possible? I don’t know, but it’s one more thing I’d have to learn before deciding to sign up for many hours of agony and vaginal stretching followed by a lifetime of extra responsibilities.

You provide me with peaceful space to people-watch, eat, put my feet up and think about Mark Twain quotes, such as:

The difference between a perfect word and a near-perfect word is like the difference between lightning and a lightning bug.

About 60% of the time, most people would agree that Mark Twain was right like, all the time – this is no exception.  Carefully chosen words have helped me connect with many minds, enter different worlds, feel a myriad of emotions, and have been the tool for sharing my own. Reading and writing never get boring. Sometimes I do, though. Sometimes there’s no juice left to be squeezed out of my foamy brain; then I’m forced to recount the time I fabricated a story to make up for my lack of real-life excitement.

It was an eighth grade statewide writing contest;  students were informed that whatever they came up with in the next thirty minutes would have to be the basis for contest entry. I always loved writing. I just didn’t enjoy being forced to do it.

Does it have to be the truth?

No, I guess it doesn’t.

Awethome. While everyone blabbed away about soccer tournaments that changed their lives, I decided that to win, I’d have to give these common people a little sex, drugs, and rock n’ roll. I was tired of using the immigrant card and I didn’t trust the white judges to pick the is-she-hispanic-if-not-what-is-she kid. Inspired by my viewing of Christiane F., I made up a story about suffering through a close cousin’s battle with heroin addiction. In shocking detail, I recounted unreal tales of discovering her passed out on the bathroom floor and finding condoms in her backpack – she was only 12 at the time. Ooooh!

I like to think that it was my writing – my careful word choice – that brought these silly people along for that roller-coaster ride. That and maybe the fact I gave them a happy ending of a recovered and back-in-school adolescent fighting to salvage her innocence. When word got around that I was a semi-finalist, I, the immigrant kid with an accent, was hounded by my white peers for details on my cousin’s sleazy affairs.

Oh, I made it up. I couldn’t think of anything to write about, so I made it up. They said I could.

My English teacher asked me after class if it was true that I’d made up the story. I confirmed. I wasn’t reprimanded for it, but I didn’t win either. Some other kid did, just because he wrote about a Jewish grandfather who fought in the war. Yawn. And stupid me; I should’ve lied to everyone or at least gone with an embellished version of my hard times as an immigrant with too much coca-cola and candy at my disposal.

Neighbors

22 Feb

I find it really strange that my friend doesn’t know who her neighbors are. She’s lived at the apartment for at least a year, I think, and says she barely knows what they look like. I live in a large old house converted into an ‘apartment building’. I know who all my neighbors are. All of the apartments are small, except for the first floor, so they’re mostly occupied by singles. There are about five late-20’s to mid-30’s men. One of them has some kind of nutritional supplements resale business going on, but they all wear suits to their day-jobs, except for John. I have no idea what John does for work. I don’t see him very often, and when I do, it’s usually nighttime. He’s very polite but my dog *really* doesn’t like him. I’ve lived in this building for a year, and she always barks when she sees him. No growling; she barks at him and doesn’t stop, even when I tell her to. I always apologize to John, but I wonder why she’s so especially weird with him. I guess there’s a mild creepiness about him, but not in a serial killer way.

Then there’s the mid-50’s Blues and Enya lover. This guy moved in just a few months ago. Big smile, almost as big as his mustache. He’s barely ever aroundl maybe 2-3 days per week. But when he is, I definitely know; he blasts the Blues or Enya (really, that’s it. blues or Enya.) until 9pm, when he then promptly shuts it off. If he’s around on the weekends, I might catch him practicing the electric guitar. I wonder if he’s a truck driver.

There’s the undergraduate art student. Her sporadically visiting boyfriend is a bit weird, but she is a nice girl who visits her parents often. And she’s taking guitar lessons. The back bumper of her car is covered in stickers, mostly fast, angry music-related, like mine was when I was an undergraduate. There’s the white American woman with an Indian husband whose mother visits way too often, in my opinion. They don’t seem to love each other. They seem pretty miserable, actually. Right before the holidays, I saw him waiting outside the building with suitcases.

Oh are you guys going away for the holidays?
Yeah… we’re going to [insert forgotten vacation hot spot here].
That’s awesome, you guys will have a lot of fun!
Yeah… we’ll try, I guess. Gotta try.

I try to avoid them, though he’s always very nice to me.

There’s a young guy, probably my age, with a New Hampshire license plate who likes his weed, french fries and really bad music. Varying genres – techno, hip hop, rock – but the worst songs of each. He has boring looking friends who visit on the weekends and they listen to more bad music together, a little louder. And then there’s the first floor lady. She’s nearly 70, and just a sweetheart. She’s lived at the house for 22 years, at the same apartment. She has her granddaughter over a lot, as well as her children and their spouses, but I think she feels pretty lonely. Every time I see her I get trapped for at least 20mins; she talks a lot. A couple of times, when I wasn’t in a particular hurry to go anywhere, I somehow found myself in her dining room, being force-fed cookies and soda and learning all about her children and fun facts about Waltham.

Please… no more cookies. I just want to go upstairs to do nothing alone. Please.

But she is a widow and a wonderful lady and as much as I’m a bratty kid, I appreciate her (though sometimes I try to avoid her too. I don’t always have the time for cookies and town trivia).

I wonder who I am to them. On my third or fourth night in this building, I nearly burned it down. I put a pizza in the oven, forgot about it, and didn’t shut the oven off all the way. I closed my bedroom door and went to sleep. Around 12:30am, I woke up with Tori barking, because someone was knocking at the door. I opened my bedroom door and could only see smoke. When I opened the main door, I saw half of my neighbors standing out there.

Are you OK? Did you not hear the alarm? The firefighters are on their way.
Uuuuhhhh… Oh yeah, the pizza. I’m so sorry, everyone.

Fucking idiot. Barely three days in, and I was already a fucking idiot.

I don’t know what they think of me. Luckily, I haven’t tried to burn down the building since, so they aren’t afraid of me, I’m pretty sure. I’m a good dog owner, I am home alone a lot, and they probably can’t ever hear my music or television playing. I wear flip flops to work, I’ve been seen driving about five different cars, and I’m pretty sure some of them know I smoke weed. I don’t feel bad because at least two others smoke cigarettes inside their apartments, and I can smell it as I walk by their doors. I just kind of hope they don’t think I’m a weirdo. Like I do of John.

The Holy Trinity: Weed, Drum&Bass, Sex

19 Jan

2009 started off on a not so fabulous note: my car had just been stolen and I’d had a major “woopsies” in my love life. Now I think it was the best year I’ve had in a long time.

In 2009 I became a pothead. I started taking better care of myself, became a little more selfish (in a good way), made new friends, discovered new passions, rekindled old ones… I was happier. I think I became a little bit nicer of a person. I’m still a bitch deep down inside, though.

Appropriately enough, in this calmer phase of my life I realized I liked electronic music.  I had never cared for it before, not even after the effort my friend Mitya exerted, in vain, to get me to appreciate it. Once he tried a remix of Beyonce’s ‘Ring the Alarm.’

Please turn that shit off. It sucks! It’s repetitive and annoying!

He and I stopped going out dancing together for a while because he only wanted to listen to house/trance, and I would be yawning after the first hour.

After my relationship ended, I wanted nothing more than to go out and see people. Just… people my age having fun. So I tagged along with Mitya even if he was going to house music nights. His brother had also started DJing at clubs, so with the added exposure, I learned to like it. I think, in fact, I first learned to understand it. I had to grow comfortable with a new freedom of movement. There aren’t necessary steps or ways to move in order to dance to electronic music. It’s not about choreography. EDM is an internal experience; you dance as your limbs choose to move and each person can interpret the experience entirely differently. It’s fluid because it’s a fruit of the mind that is in sync with the music.

Last year brought me the discovery of an untapped little world of sounds sometimes a polar opposite of what I used to listen to. I still love my 90’s rock and always will. But dancing to hip-hop music became much less interesting. I’m just sayin’…

My newest obsession is drum&bass. It gives me a sustained level of calmness and alertness, simultaneously. It’s timed fast enough to make me want to bounce my head and tap my feet, but the melody is a bit creepy on top of it, or even uplifting and soothing. And it goes on with songs interlacing, maintaining me content, alert, calm, maybe playful or curious…

This is why I cannot wait to have sex while stoned and listening to drum&bass. The drum&bass shares with weed the calming and contentment-inducing effects. A raw energy is crucial for the quality of both the music as well as the sex.  And everyone knows weed and sex go together like rice and beans. It’s a love triangle made in heaven. Or hell, I’m not sure.

Intoxication on the Road and Fond Memories of Sex with a Gay Man

4 Nov

I wasn’t driving, relax. I love going to New York. I absolutely love breathing in the pollution caused by so many aggressively driven vehicles with zero tolerance for pedestrians. It reminds me of my childhood; getting off the buses in Rio and having to hold my breath as they drive away, spewing nasty shit from the exhaust right into my face. That stuff burns your eyes, and yet, it feels like home to me. As much as I love New York, it is three and a half hours away, and my friends’ living rooms aren’t hostels, so I have to keep the trips to a reasonable minimum. I think the driving is the worst part, though, especially since I’m rarely the driver. Three and a half hours sitting in a car does not sit well with me. I am one who is constantly talking, constantly thinking, constantly tapping on some surface and/or shaking my leg. I should probably never try cocaine.

What I did instead was dig into my supplies and enjoy a few hits.  The beauty of being stoned is that you resign yourself to the circumstances at hand and no longer feel the need to be in charge and control the situation. While the leg shaking doesn’t stop, my thoughts slow down and take a much more random and enjoyable course. I feel the music run through my body, I create stories in my head from the cars driving by, I look up useless information on the internets… there is so much to entertain me, I could ride in the car for days! Fortunately, it is only a matter of time before the munchies hit and we make a pit stop at the last Mass Pike plaza. It’s October 30th and I head straight to the bathroom. As I’m washing my hands, I spot an adorable little girl struggling to reach the faucet, a nice old lady powdering her nose, and a myriad other women, going about their business. In walks Little Red Riding Hood. I can see her butt cheeks underneath her impossibly too short skirt, and her massive boobs are hanging out of her corset. I’m stoned and have completely forgotten it’s Halloween weekend. I look at her and then turn to the little girl; she’s staring at Little Red Riding Hood and her boobs. The girl’s mother comes, shoots a dirty look at Little Red Riding Hood and drags her daughter out of the bathroom.  Grandma scowls as well and heads out. I feel bad for Little Red Riding Hood; she looked embarrassed. I decide I should say something in solidarity.

I had totally forgotten it was Halloween weekend! You look really cute..
Aaaawww, thank you! We’re going to a party and I should’ve probably put a jacket on before coming in here, I didn’t even think of it.

And then… I’m not really sure what I said, but I blabbed on and on and I noticed her face change from a smile to a look of “WTF.” So I wrapped it up and kept washing my hands. She said “bye,” and left the bathroom. I thought to myself, “God, I was just trying to be nice. She walks in here looking like a hooker and I was the only person who didn’t make her feel bad. Why are people so rude and uptight?” I looked up and saw my reflection in the mirror. My eyes were completely red and I looked as freshly baked as a Portuguese roll at 5:30am. The thing is, I may LOOK stoned, but I act perfectly fine. I’m not an idiot and I’m not a dumb kid. In fact, I would confidently state that I am a kinder, more courteous person while high.  Furthermore, I have time and again been stoned without anyone knowing. Unfortunately, this time my eyes did all the talking.

I left the bathroom and kept my eyes down in shame as I walked to the Pizzeria counter. And there he was… a man whose name I cannot remember, but boy, oh boy, do I remember the time we had sex. It was a few years ago; he was a co-worker’s friend and we had hung out a few times. He was quite a few years older than me and took me out to some fancy schmancy restaurants where the wine was poured blithely. He was a very good looking guy, very polite, funny, smart, and this was our third date. I felt it was OK to give up the goodies, so we walked back to his place.  The sex would have been highly enjoyable were I not mostly concerned about his sexual orientation. Some stuff went down that night that truly made me think he was gay. I never called him after that night.  So here we were, years later at the Charleston Mass Pike plaza, in line for food. I may have been stoned, but I was able to think quickly and avert his eyes. After I got my food, I went to sit down with my friends. I noticed he was with a girl; a very cute girl. She ate her pizza apologetically, as if she were embarrassed to be eating in front of him. He was insanely well groomed and put together. They barely talked to one another. I ate my pizza like the hungry animal I was and the three of us got up to leave.

Hey, look, I had sex with that guy. I think he’s gay. He insisted I not face him, plus there was all kinds of other weird things he did. I was even cuter back then, so I don’t understand why he wouldn’t want to look at me.

Wow, thanks, I didn’t need to know that.

We walked back to the car, fueled and ready to start our weekend of madness. As we drove off, I thought about the maybe-gay boy and his companion. If he really is gay, I feel bad for him. That’s no way to live; pretending to be something you’re not. As far as the girl goes, if she’s kinky, they should try the paper bag method.