No question receives as inadequate an answer as “how was it?” to a slow-thinking, blissed-out, directly-post-acid friend in the early evening hours after their trip. Their meandering memories are unordered, epiphanies inarticulate, warmth radiated out and smoked up like the incense they toppled over stumbling up to stretch.
In their baked and fuzzy haze, thoughts become tantric mantras: abstract, unarguable phrases chanted until they achieve natural truth. If printed on a natural fiber tee tumble-wash-eroded to a roughsoft nap, or a bumper sticker faded dry by road trips through All-American deserts (Vermont winter, Texas tumbleweed, Joshua Tree summer, Brooklyn asphalt), those mantras would be rendered in Hobo.
Hobo has, above all else, a flared flair. She is natural, organic, softly undulating. You can, if you go slowly enough to fit in the spliffs and deep conversations and naps, hike in bell bottom Lees. Hobo does. It’s dyed in her wool, after all. Hobo’s parents, those wonderful old hippies, will leave her a cash-poor inheritance comprised largely of one-of-a-kind hand-me-downs in corduroy, canvas, denim and leather.
Hobo always seems to be hanging around some new group. Maybe its because she’s easy going, though she worries it's because of her copious hallucinogen intake. She makes fast friends waiting at the bar, smoking a cigarette outside, and in line at the club. With these new friends her soft smile rarely parts to push words through, merely pursing and curling in response to the conversation around her.
Hobo enjoys drugs, she half-heartedly self-assures while trudging through dopamine valleys, because receiving feeling is the truest form of honesty. The bitter cynicism lurking behind Hobo's fears is that she's merely a ripe target for projection. After all, isn’t her soft, smooth brain the perfect palette for the soaring emotional arcs of a trip? And her sincere and silent tight-lipped smile, allegedly beautiful - isn’t that just a safe haven for the hurt souls who seek her audience?
Jeez, that was a long trip. Hobo pauses, thumbing through her last 6 hours - happy, sad, radiant, shivering, lost, found, stretched, and now contently - truly contently - wrung out.
“How was it?” you ask again.
“Ohhhh, you knoooow,” replies Hobo, her arcing tone harmonizing with the past day’s still-reverberating feelings. “How are you?” she deflects.
Shatter's rib cage pokes through their pale skin. Any fat Shatter once had was burned long ago from sweaty nights dancing and muscles shivering and thoughts spinning so fast that Shatter forgot to eat. Shatter is completely burnt, gnashing and grinding until the friction rips them into ash and smoke and acrid fumes.
Before falling face-first onto sharp rails of cocaine that Shattered them into jagged shards, they were a clean, orderly, crisp Helvetica. Looking at their pieces, angled forward and stuttering back, Shatter’s particularly handy and hopeful friends imagine they can put Shatter back together. Maybe they can. Never perfect, never seamless, never like they were - that Eden is gone - but together in some comfortable, human sobriety.
Some who have already tried to help, though, aren’t so sure. “The breaks might be too clean and complete,” they worry in hushed tones, “and I’m not sure there’s a surface for the glue to hold on to and bring Shatter back together.” If they’re right, if Shatter’s anxious feedback loop has become debilitatingly defeaning, the only way to quiet Shatter might be by unplugging them altogether. Full lobotomy.
For now, Shatter will remain suspended in the cracked acrylic amber of their panicked mania. A breaking point - one we try not talk about anymore - brought about their Shattering. One day, God willing, another will bring about their Recovery.
The modern cannabis consumer/connoisseur (MCC/C) knows there are three key data points (3-KDPs) to evaluate when selecting a giggle grass to mellow their harsh: delta-9-tetrahydrocannabinol (Δ-9-THC), CBD (CBD), and, crucially, brand identity.
Thanks to its wide popularity, weed has developed a moderate categorical diversity that gives consumers a feeling of control without the burden of creation. Run your eyes over the selection on the shelf: whispy scripts centered over washed out pastels, matte black blocks drilled into glossy precious metal, merry old tattoos inked on tan paper.
Why the schisms in window dressing? Boomers bought things. Millennials bought experiences. Now, young folks purchase states of being - ideally visible ones. It’s natural for consumers to come of age, after all. Weed has. Marijuana’s polyamorous relationship with private equity and Pentagram design has led it to embrace its professional Brand Identity: relaxed, coherent, attractive, and pristine.
If only those promises came true. Like drinking with your parents, smoking is fun in theory and hilarious in stories. But in reality, few are cool enough to do it without feeling a touch off. Both happened most in college, at high school grad parties, Thanksgivings back home, and second cousins’ weddings. They were narcotics to dull the lonely, low-grade pain that started acting up after flying (falling?) out of the nest.
There is no singular font for weed because weed has fully entered the public forum: a buyer’s market (confused, inebriated, unsatisfied buyers), and thus a marketer’s market. It is defined by the surface-level diversity pulling it in every direction and, ultimately, nowhere
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