I’ve mentioned before about the pot culture here in Lotus Land, and how Jeff and I only participate by our proximity to other people. We don’t really judge people who toke, it’s just that I’m wildly allergic to marijuana, and Jeff is wildly allergic to- well, everything. We actually like potheads a lot because they tend to be quieter, more laid-back and relaxed compared to the asshats who go to hockey games across the street at GM Place, get drunk and run around our neighbourhood afterwards screaming “WHOOOOO!” and peeing in front of or actually on our building. So, weed = not bad as long as it’s not in our faces. The problem is that our building, while brand new and really well built, has a problem with ventilation.
You see where I’m going with this.
Last night we crashed a little early – it’s been a long week, everyone’s been a bit fried and speaking personally I’ve been freebasing caffeine and needed to recuperate a bit. We chucked the dog on the bed, grabbed a book (me) and a laptop (Jeff) and attempted to relax. We discovered in a hurry that our immediate neighbours to the right of us were doing the same thing with a bong full of Cabo Wabo, because it wasn’t just coming in the open window, but also a bit through the electrical outlets in our bedroom. We’re thinking they were hotboxing in their bedroom for maximum efficiency.
Even after closing our window we were getting a bit of a contact high, which wasn’t fun for either of us, and got one of those room freshener candles to drown out the smell of weed. I was really hungry and got something to eat but we pretty much turned in at that point.
This is where it gets weird.
It was a very long and restless night – if you’re wondering about my accuracy here, it’s because I was writing stuff down every time I woke up (which was A LOT).
I had dreams:
a) Of chasing the dog through a Bell Mobility store and getting screamed at by the staff because Rumble works for Fido (?),
b) That I was Chase in an episode of House (wishful thinking),
c) Being in a Kendo match against Pat Morita,
d) Jeff and I living in a yard with no house, just surrounded by boxes of our stuff and our furniture,
e) Being chased by the Hulk while driving a Hummer against traffic down the Queensway in Ottawa,
f) And sharing a hotel room with Paris Hilton and Chloe Sevigny who was dressed up as Lady Gaga. Chloe was very nice, but Paris was smoking in the bed (which I was sharing with her, ew) and in retaliation I threw her dog’s CD across the room and she burned me with her cigarette. I went to smack her and:
sat up and accidentally slapped Rumble on the ass, who jumped up and hopped around for a minute, wondering what was going on. He’d been sleeping on my leg, stradling it with his head on my foot, and when I looked Jeff was still dead to the world. When we got up this morning all three of us had a bit of a hangover.
I’m going to seal up the outlet backings today so this doesn’t happen again – again, no judging the folks who like to get high, it’s just that I don’t think my subconscious can handle it. Plus, I got up three times in the night to go raid the fridge.
By the way, for the record? I friggin’ HATE Lady Gaga.
