I have this interesting problem. I have trouble just sitting here and writing things that make sense. I can type for hours, rambling on about the nonsensical, but as soon as I try to incorporate any actual fact, things go haywire. I lose all semblance of reality and I begin to spiral towards the earth in an uncontrollable dive made up of prose and verse. It's an editor's nightmare.

Wake.

Get up, clean up. Sit on the edge of the bed, and clear your head for a second. Try to separate the drone of the alarm clock from the chirps of the birds outside. Turn the lights on. Turn the lights off. It's like ritual

The irritating whine of the alarm clock slowly comes to the forefront; it wasn't a priority before, but it has finally made its way through the cracks from your sub-conscious to your conscious. Moving to hit the snooze button with more than enough force and drama, you lie there and look at the glowing digital face blankly. Not blinking, a single tear swells and erratically slides down your cheek. As the fog in your head begins to dissipate, you start to comprehend what you're staring at. Not one to generally proclaim, you calmly proclaim "Fuck." Class starts in 15 minutes.

Several options present themselves at this point. You could rush, and get to class only a few minutes late. You could get up, have a shower, eat some breakfast, and get there for the class after; or you could put on your bathrobe, go outside and smoke a bowl, and then lie on the lawn and let your dog lick your nuts until you're forced to move because you don't want to shit all over your bathrobe. Fuck that other stuff, showering is over-rated anyway.

Pulling some underwear on, you can't help but entertain one of the insignificant thoughts that cross through your mind. "What the hell did I do yesterday?" Pausing only briefly to contemplate you are again distracted, this time by a strange odor. Realizing that your dog probably hasn't gone to the bathroom in longer than you have, you wander downstairs never having reached a conclusion.

Now, the bathrobe is an incredible thing. Its soft and thick enough that it will keep you warm in the cold, yet open enough that it provides sufficient circulation to keep you cool if you are too warm. It also has no complicated buttons or zippers to confuse you. Good thing too.

Having finally make it downstairs you find the source of not only the smell, but also of a whimpering noise that you hadn't bothered to hear until now. Opening the screen door loudly with your foot, the dog shoots out into the yard like only a dog of that stature can.

Looking down at your shoeless foot, you notice that there is a large cut on your ankle. Whatever, pack a bowl.

Hot fuck, now isn't that better? Who needs life, this is fucking incredible. Ah, now you remember how you cut your ankle. You were playing with a switchblade and trying to get stoned at the same time. Something was bound to be dropped. Thank god it was the knife and not the bud.

What the hell, how did you get on the lawn? Doesn't matter. Lawn is good. I mean, everything's green... The grass is green, the sky is green, even the sweet smell produced by the green plant you just burned comes as a green haze.

Count Grass. Can't, the dog is chewing on your ear. Fucken dog, always gets hungry when it's stoned. Should give it acid some time. That would show the stupid little shit.

Hours pass. The sun comes up slowly, and you can feel its effects on your back. The only noises come from the leaves gently bending against themselves and the occasional satisfied grunt from the fat bitch lying next to you who was earlier chewing on your ear.

It's getting harder to focus. Eyes still closed, you open a jar next to you. Immediately it escapes, a new and almost equally intense smell. Pack another bowl, repeat.

Ignorance really is bliss. There's something to be said for living in a situation where your biggest perceived concern is how you're going to find some grass to lie on when you're 40 and your parents grass is dead.

Drug (?), v. i. [See 1st Drudge.]

To drudge; to toil laboriously.

[Obs.] "To drugge and draw."

Chaucer.

 

© Webster 1913.


Drug, n.

A drudge (?).

Shak. (Timon iv. 3, 253).

 

© Webster 1913.


Drug, n. [F. drogue, prob. fr. D. droog; akin to E. dry; thus orig., dry substance, hers, plants, or wares. See Dry.]

1.

Any animal, vegetable, or mineral substance used in the composition of medicines; any stuff used in dyeing or in chemical operations.

Whence merchants bring
Their spicy drugs.

Milton.

2.

Any commodity that lies on hand, or is not salable; an article of slow sale, or in no demand.

"But sermons are mere drugs."

Fielding.

And virtue shall a drug become. Dryden.

 

© Webster 1913.


Drug, v. i. [imp. & p. p. Drugged (?); p. pr. & vb. n. Drugging.] [Cf. F. droguer.]

To prescribe or administer drugs or medicines.

B. Jonson.

 

© Webster 1913.


Drug, v. t.

1.

To affect or season with drugs or ingredients; esp., to stupefy by a narcotic drug. Also Fig.

The laboring masses . . . [were] drugged into brutish good humor by a vast system of public spectacles. C. Kingsley.

Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it. Tennyson.

2.

To tincture with something offensive or injurious.

Drugged as oft, With hatefullest disrelish writhed their jaws. Milton.

3.

To dose to excess with, or as with, drugs.

With pleasure drugged, he almost longed for woe. Byron.

 

© Webster 1913.

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