Ganja. Green. Bud. Dro. Kush. Whatever you call it, I like to smoke weed. I like to be high. I'm what I like to call a functioning pot head. I wake up, take a toke and go through out my day with a smile on my face and the less likelihood there is I will punch someone in the face.
I'm not stoned out of my mind high all day long, staring at the walls and watching cartoons. I just like being slightly lifted when taking care of things. I just smoked a bowl now. Now Dante has admitted to his druggie days back in high school and college but says he's grown up and left all that behind. Good for him. I don't have a problem. I don't fiend for weed, or anything else I happen to be partaking in at the moment. I also don't feel the need to hide the fact that I smoke from him.
So I'm throwing the boxes his new furniture came in out at the dumpster behind his new apartment and I notice I conveniently brought along my hitter box. So I take a quick toke and as I am walking to the back door I exhale just as the door opens and Dante walks out for a smoke. I felt like a child caught doing something bad. The look on his face only made it worse. All he asked me was, "You're not doing that all day while your here are you?"
"No," I lied.
I don't like that feeling. I'm going to have to have a discussion with him about this before it turns into something bad. Maybe I should point out how many times he has to stop his day to walk outside for a cigarette. Hey Pot? Yeah it's the kettle. Yeah? Yup. Guess what? You're black.