Everything is wrong with me
Thursday, June 03, 2004
the dangers/awesomeness of drugs
My friend Josh works in the music industry. From what I can tell, his job has two main responsibilities: 1) going to a ton of concerts for free; and 2) getting awesome drugs.

The "pot" he gets is amazing. I use quotation marks because I don't believe that it is pot in its common, more familiar form, but rather some superdrug bred deep in the rain forests of Costa Rica where it has kept the natives high and happy for thousands of years.

Last night Josh came over to our new place to check it out, and bought some of this super pot. Naturally, we smoked, and naturally, within minutes I was a $10 bet away from jumping out my 21st floor bedroom window with my bedsheet to prove that it would make an effective parachute despite the fact that I am what doctors would call "obese."

High out of our minds, Josh and my roommates Ben and Brian and I decided to go sample the restaurant scene in the Upper East Side and grab some dinner.

This dinner was hilarious, but relatively uneventful - trying to relate something that you found funny while high to someone who wasn't there to experience it high is a lost cause. But still, we had a blast. I particularly enjoyed grabbing my roommate Brian's utensils every chance I could and rubbing them on my crotch (see, I told you it's a lost cause).

Many glasses of wine later, our eyes still bloodshot and our minds still cloudy, the waitress brought the check over. At this point, I was very inebriated, which means one thing: I thought I was rich, rich beyond my wildest dreams, with more money in my bank account than I know what to do with, when in reality the people at Chase are plotting to kidnap my little sister and hold her for ransom until I pay off my egregious credit card debt.

So I offered to pay, because Josh brought us wonderful drugs that made us happy, because it was Ben's birthday on Monday and my only gift to him was a promise to stop beating off at his computer, and because my roommate Brian is broke (mostly).

I looked at the bill, and I couldn't figure it out. I was turning it all around, trying to see how the numbers added up, and I just didn't get it. This is understandable, as I still was high out of my gord and had a nice wine buzz going. But still, I was clueless about this bill. So I called the waitress over, and we had this exchange:

Me: [bloodshot eyes, wine-stained teeth, swaying back and forth with the smile of the high on my face] "Excuse me Miss, but I can't seem to figure out this bill here."
Waitress: [shocked, uncomfortable] "Uh, sir, that's the desert menu."

I was so fucked up I thought the desert menu was our bill. The fucking desert menu. I must have stared at that thing for a solid four to five minutes and couldn't tell it wasn't a bill, but a menu. Good lord.

Of course, within seconds my friends and I were in hysterics at the table, doubled over in laughter, tears streaming down our faces, my roommate Ben yelling at the top of his lungs in the semi-posh restaurant, "Stop! I'm gonna throw up! I'm gonna throw up!"

Eventually, we calmed down (by "eventually", I mean "after a long time"). We paid the bill and escaped the disapproving and disgusted stairs of the other restaurant patrons, taking our maniacal laughter to the street and back to our apartment.

And finally the night ended like most usually do: a pint of Haagen Dazs Cookies 'n' Cream + twenty seconds in the microwave = the best part of my day.

The moral of the story: use drugs. Use them every chance you get, because they are awesome, and will only make you happy and make you forget that the last time you got laid Outkast's most popular song was "Ms. Jackson" and you never even considered that the Marlins would win the World Series and John Ritter, bless his heart, was still with us.

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