Contact High
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
There I was, a mere ten minutes ago, waiting patiently (heavy laundry bags in hand) for the freight elevator to stop at my floor. It finally opens, and I see them...those two guys from upstairs somewhere that always look sort of unwashed. They are surrounded in a cloud of smoke - I get into the elevator because I'll be DAMNED if two hoodlums who rent in my building are going to keep me from completing the task at hand.

Then the door shuts, and it hits me. No, literally - the stench hits me like napalm: Mary Jane is in the house. And by "house," I mean elevator, and I think you know what I mean by "Mary Jane." These two must have been carrying the lit joint on them - that, or they are the most talented breath-holders I have ever met in my entire life. The trip down to the first floor was kind of like rolling with Snoop Dogg, minus the bling, the video hoes, and of course, the 22-inch rims.

And it was good weed, man. I could tell just by the smell of it, and I'm not a user (recreational or otherwise). I suddenly felt jealous that they're off to have a good time, and I'm settled in for a night of laundry in my holey pj pants. The Merchant Ivory film I had lined up via Netflix only compounded my fear that I might actually be 27 going on 64.