Motherfucking Dope Problems


#001: Forgetfulness

Think of something so brilliant, so brilliant it doesn’t need to be written down. When said ‘brilliant idea’ needs to be implemented / written down, Mang makes you forget.

#002: Maranoia

The result of framing every thought from a guilty conscious. Suddenly, red eyes can’t be blamed on a mere change of seasons.

#003: Mood Swings

This is mainly a problem when you haven’t smoked. Have you ever lived with a serious stoner? The type of stoner that needs their bong in the morning? You’ll find that the bong smokers with a sincere and honest marijuana addiction will be grumpy and irritable until they’ve had their morning cone. These mood swings also extend to the rest of the stoner’s day.

#004: Mates

Often your mates will be your salvation when you’re stinging; however, there are times when they can also be the greatest source of frustration. For example, there’s always going to be one person who smokes more than the other, no two people can smoke the exact same amount. Second, and most importantly, the eternal fight for the first and last cone. This fucks me up the most.

#005: The Sting

Addiction begets certain needs (not wants). You know what I mean.

#006: Quitting

Everybody has to quit. It’s not that bad. Active participation in things like family life — and the interaction with the whole fucking community in general will increase. This is O.K. The problem is (and I speak entirely for myself here) is that I don’t really like my ‘sober attitude’. I prefer myself when I’m stoned. And I’m sure other people do to. Quitting sucks.

#007: Money

Got none. Turns to available credit. Cash advance on more than once occasion. I have also sold shit to buy dope. Fix now, pay later.

#008: Who has the fucking light?

This makes me sick, the amount of money I’ve spent on fucking Bic lights over the years. A almost three bucks a pop I reckon I spent almost five thousand dollars on lights over my professional smoking life. That’s money that could have gone to tobacco, wine or green… MOTHER-FUCK… TRAVESTY…

A beloved person in my household asked me a question the other day, ‘Where is THE lighter?’ She said. Interesting…. I know where ‘A lighter’ is, but the whereabouts of ‘THE lighter’ remains unknown. At what fucking point in the discourse did the indefinite become the definite? How did this cheeky fucking article of the absolute work its way into common conversation about lighters when discussion of ownership comes up? It always does…

Inevitably, ‘a lighter’ I have in my pocket, my god dam lighter, it will become ‘the lighter’. Put into common use. Trashed until she runs out of gas. So long Ol’ Blue. I will remember you.

Never form an attachment with a lighter. If a dog lives seven years for every human year, then a lighter must live a century for every one of ours. The life expectancy is very low. Recent statistics show that most lighters don’t make it past their teens and the infant mortality rate is disturbingly high. More on this as it comes.



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