the lost man chronicles
the daily chronicle
A Trove of Confessions (about Mary Jane)
So it seems that these chronicles are degenerating into a trove of confessions.
I foolishly justify any self-deprecating verbosity by telling myself that it’s a way to keep myself honest—honest about who I am, honest about what I do, honest about who—I am becoming.
And so with that I will convey that I ail, and am fairly certain why.
For about two weeks now I have tolerated some grating chest congestion, a mere, a minor respiratory infection. The only other significant symptom has been a lack of motivation, for I’ve struggled to get out of bed lately and, generally, I do not possess my usual drive toward accomplishment.
Well, over the weekend these symptoms became acute, requiring a few inhalations of asthma tic steroids to open up the bronchial tubes so that I might breath again.
The culprit? The cause? And the primary reason I’m feeling culpable?
In other argot, patois, lingo—were talkin’ pot, weed—The Herb.
And even though I revel in the notion that I recently scored a nice bag of hydo(ponic), I’m now slightly regretting my illicit indulgences.
The most recent bout began on New Year’s Eve when we hosted a party and invited half the neighborhood. I figured that smoking a little bit of doobie or rather—resin and a smidgeon of crusty flake—was a sure way to instill a sense of humor about the whole affair, the requisite affectations and contrived chumminess.
Then I did it again at the Thursday Night Poker Game, followed by dips into papa’s brand new bag on Friday and Saturday evenings. All the while I knew that smoking would only make the mild congestion I had much worse.
Alas, here I am shriving my reprehensible deeds, further evidence that I am indeed human after all, and thus, prone to err and err again.
And so, along with my self-deprecating chastise and a vow to “give up the ganja” (at least until I fully recover) I’ve reassessed my evil penchants and predilections, as often occurs when I suffer the consequences of my transgressions, and have decided to loosen the vice grip by submitting to a smoking schedule attuned to the lunar cycle, so that ultimately I might get the most out of my illicit experiences.
Essentially the plan is to only partake during the nights entre the waxing to waning of the gibbous moon. This will not only temper my bad habit and help me stay relatively healthy, but will also give me due cause to howl and run wild through the streets, as I am apt to do anyway whenever I “inhale.”
Furthermore, I figure that heeding this once-in-a-full moon regimen will give my dopamine receptors in my VTA (ventral tegmental area) and nucleus accumbens time to recover, so that I might feel the full opiate and short-term memory loss benefits of the THC. Furthermore, the year-long program should stretch out my supply until 2006.
Most importantly, what this really means is that I have a mere two weeks, a full 14 days, to fully recover, for that is when the next full moon will rise in the sky and light up my night.
Now, how’s that for motivation?
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