Pots & Pads
I don't smoke pot. I gave it up a long time ago when I discovered that when I mix pot and alcohol, I puke. As I am deeply in love with alcohol and less than completely enamored with vomiting, I had to say farewell to pot.
I don't really miss it. When I smoke pot all of my limited social skills disappear. I never know what I said last or how long ago I said it or if I said it really, really loud. I wonder if it is time for me to say anything again. Then, I realize that I have no idea what we were talking about and so I have nothing to say. Also, the urges to clean out the drawers in my desk or dust the blinds or reorganize my bookshelf becomes overwhelming and I have to go find my rubber gloves or my happy place.
Naturally, finding my rubber gloves is a challenge and I end up unearthing a whole bunch of other crap and I can't remember what I was looking for in the first place, so I have to go back to the conversation that I had previously dropped out of. Thus, the cycle starts again. Wait, did I just say that?
I don't dislike pot. I don't dislike pot smokers. But, it's difficult to explain to pot smokers that I can't smoke for fear of vomiting in public. It's even harder to explain that I really want to find some rubber gloves to clean something but I just can't remember what that something is.
My lovely, but nearly retarded friend Sue knows that I don't smoke. When she travels with me, she understands that she is responsible for stuffing her bra with her own pot as I will be unable to help her acquire any. It's always exciting to see what she will pull out of her bra. I call them party boobs.
I can't even get a bottle of hand sanitizer through security at the airport, but she can manage to smuggle her weight in pot across various borders. Apparently, cleavage is very distracting. I have suggested that she use her cleavage to smuggle illegal immigrants across the border, but she can't figure out how she will get them into her bra when it is stuffed full of pot.
The last time that we traveled together, she decided to try a different approach. She stuffed a giant sized nighttime pad with wings full of pot. Her biggest mistake was taking the pot out of its original plastic bag before slicing the pad with a razor and inserting the pot into the pad.
When she went to pull the pot out of the pad, it was coated in soft, downy cotton and that mysterious blue gel that is intended to wick moisture away from the body.
The other thing that I don't do besides smoking pot is go down on girls. When Sue offered me a joint of pot with an absorbent core, all I could tell her was that I don't mix pot and crotch.
"More for me," she shrugged.
She blazed, and the smell of burning cotton and hair filled the room.
P.S. Writing the words pot and pad so many times has made me think of Pol Pot and that makes me feel more intelligent in that Khmer Rouge sort of way. I guess I didn't smoke too much pot during those five years it took me to get that liberal arts degree.