It catches you by surprise; you reach for a nug out of your ziplock baggy, and said ziplock baggy is empty (why did you even put an empty ziplog baggy back in your desk drawer, you fool? You are literally playing yourself and yourself alone). It’s fine, it’s chill, you have enough for a couple bowls in your grinder.
You decide to be proactive. You’re not desperate yet, and to spare yourself from desperation, you text the Weed Man. But to no avail. No read receipts, but you know he’s seen it.
Days go by without a response. Those couple of bowls in your grinder? Donezo. Long gone. You smoke it, waiting for a response, looking like an uglier, sadder, Rihanna in those pictures of her smoking in a beach chaise. Where did you go wrong? You thought you and the Weed Man were friends.
No one wants to smoke you out, especially on a fucking Tuesday. If you haven’t reverted to scraping the remains from your grinder and all the corners of your room to form some hybrid half a bowl that is, admittedly, 65 percent dirt and 35 percent marijuana, you do that now.
If I develop an addiction to heavier drugs, am I allowed to blame my weed dealer for not texting back? The AUDACITY of some people, thinking I can survive as a normal, functioning human without the aid of cannabis.