Peculiar Sensations.

Do you ever hear people talk, and when they get done, you just start thinking “Please, never, ever, ever speak again. Seriously.”

“Well Spenser, what are you bringing to the class potluck?”

“Uh, I dunno. Toothpaste and a pack of ramen?”

“How about something green? We don’t have anything like that yet.”

“I could make brownies, but that’d be expensive.”

“Dude, hit that fucking turkey!”

“Nah, and give this car back with feathers all over it? What’s he gonna say? ‘Yo man, what’s all those feathers in the grill from?’”

“Yeah, that’s a fucking great idea.”

And I says to my doctor- you wanna know what I says to my doctor? I says to my doctor, I says, I don’t know where they came from or how they got there man, I just work up itchy and it started burning, ah I dunno man, I just don’t know, can’t you give me some cream or something for it? Ah, yeah. I swear man, this is the last time. Clear it up this one time and it’ll never happen again. Just give me some of those chalky pink pills and I swear it’ll be the last time I do a body shot out of a hookers pussy. And the doc says, ah, yeah.

I should start signing all my emails like this: $pen$er c; fuck bitche$, get money.

As you may or may not be aware, I have no piercings or tattoos. The reasons for this are many and varied; I feel it’s more unique to have no body modifications, because even infants get pierced ears, I find tattoos and piercings to typically be garish, and why would anyone in their right fucking mind willingly poke holes in their protective outer covering? I like being safe from microbes in the comfort of my skin. And how can you even tell where the needles have been? I don’t want AIDS man. Oh, and mostly I’m just a huge pussy who freaks out and cries at the very first sign of a needle. They just, you know, make me exceedingly uncomfortable and panicky. It’s something in the way they glint.

You know you’re a pothead when you drive though parking lots to get to the headshop from taco bell, and upon arriving at the headshop, you sit in your car for 15 minutes, staring into the windows, salivating over bongs while you clear out a triple layer nacho. You finish your meal and enter the store, where the clerks who know you by name then ask you if you enjoyed you taco bell. Do you remember that time? Or did I just tell a story?

If I didn’t think that naming bongs was stupid, I’d name my bong Cornelius Feldwick. He’d be a British scholar, and he’d be all like “You there, fill me with pot!” and I’d be like “No Cornelius, I have things to do today.”

You know that Oasis song? Champagne Supernova? You know where it’s all like “Slowly walking down the hall- faster than a cannon ball?” You know how high that motherfucker has to be? He’s SLOWLY WALKING down the hall- he’s not even running- and he’s STILL faster than a cannon ball. I can’t even. Wow.

(Also, this is my first blog from the bathroom! Woohoo!)

I need a good idea.

Today is a waste of a day. I have shit to do, but I’m entirely at the mercy of other people to accomplish it.

I stepped on a thumbtack today. That pretty much sucked dick in every possible way.

I’m listening to “Play That Funky Music White Boy” and for once, I really feel what James Brown means.

I wish I had a tree in my yard. I mean, I do, but the area around it isn’t grassy and good for sitting. It’s where we burn brush and other plant articles in the summer, and where the cats take shits, and people turn around over there so it’s partly gravelly and fuck man, I just want to sit under my tree. It’s that so much to ask?

Man, sometimes I feel stupid when I’m in the same outfit the only two times I ever meet a person. I always bet they’re thinking “Damn, doesn’t this bitch have different clothes?” I do have different clothes, but I haven’t seen you in like three weeks! How the fuck am I supposed to remember what I wore on what day I hung out with your ass? I am not writing out a laundry schedule. Wait. I bet they won’t even remember what I was wearing, because I definitely don’t remember what they had on.

Holy fucking shit, why do scabs itch so bad? That’s not even fair. You can’t scratch a scab- if you do, you’ll pick it off and the whole damn process starts again at square one: gaping wound, fresh scab, crusty scab (key itchiness phase!) scar. I hate that.

I put my hair into a pony tail with a pipe cleaner once. This is only worth mentioning because it had actually been used to clean pipes.

“Dude, fuck your bong.

“I would, but it’s too big. I’d fuck the downstem, but no one wants a resin-pussy.”

"I know, blah blah blah, hating the gays is bad!"
"No, I was gonna say 'Everyone else does it!'"

"It's ok to be racist. Black people had their chance. We've had black marriage for a long time, but not gay marriage!"

“I want to go on a murderous rampage.”

“Go kill Indians.”

“I would, but where am I going to get smallpox infected blankets?

“Why express yourself at all if it doesn't matter?”

“Why not?”

“Because there are more fun things to do. Because you can sleep instead. Million reasons why not.

“Then there are a million reasons why. However, one of those reasons doesn't have to "Because I care about it."”

“Dude, stay in your lane.”

“It don’t matter- cops know bitches can’t drive!”

An Omission.

I meant to include this in the previous post, but I had misplaced the original copy and didn't type it until just now.
Here it is, along with two bonus pot-thoughts! 


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     A conscious and sentient being also has the gift and ability to gather information about their surroundings and use that information to make informed decisions. Take, for example, a frail elderly lady with a walker and a penchant for feeding stray cats. Her name is Pearla and she lives alone with no family to speak of. One night after feeding her hoards of felines in make shift bowls crafted from tissue boxes and milk jugs, she retreats shakily into her meager dwelling. Pearla’s mind is not as sharp as it once was, and in her haste to catch Matlock, Pearla neglected to latch her screened porch door properly. Later tonight as she slumbers, Pearls veritable armies of feral cats will enter her domain. They will slip silently into her bedroom where she rests, and they will devour her aged and baglike body in a blitzkrieg of claws, fur, and contented mewing.

     Had Pearla been immune to the ravages of time, her senses would not have become dulled and she would perhaps have noticed not latching her door. Had her ears been in their prime, Pearla would have heard the ear piercing yowls as the cats entered her home with nothing but murder in their eyes and malice in their hearts. Oh, but Pearla could feel. She could feel every claw as they grazed her bones, every rip of a fang in her skin. She could feel everything as her life was snuffed like a candle at the paws of her former feline companions. 

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"I'd ride a bear. Saddle it up and go."
"I wouldn't, I'd ride it bear-back."
Get it? Bear back?

"If my period is even a little bit late, I take a pregnancy test, even if I haven't gotten laid in months."
"God wouldn't give you an immaculate conception."
"Yeah, because wouldn't it be awful when I aborted the Saviour?"

Shorts and longs.

Right now, I am not yet high. I have all the tools necessary, yet I have not taken a hit. My bowl is packed and my bong is full of ice. I have music on and video games at the ready. Why am I writing about not getting high instead of getting high? Well, dear Cornelius, because I am a pot head, and pot heads procrastinate. Not everything, and not all the time. But it happens. It always happens. I don’t even mean to procrastinate, put things off, be a little late to everyone else’s party. I mean, I didn’t even know there was a fucking party, much less that I was supposed to bring the beer. Shit. I do mean to be lazy sometimes.  And you know what? I don’t fucking care. If I want to get high and Google shit for an hour before playing my DS, I can. I can get high and go to class, or not go. It doesn’t matter. It’s not like I’m not gonna get shit done man. I’m just gonna go along at my own pace. That’s all. Maybe some people work well under pressure.

Dear Headmaster,

Yo. I just got your address out of a book. What’s with not sending me a letter yet? I’m 20 damn years old, and I’m still waiting on that owl-post. Most kids start at 11. Is there a night class or something I’m missing? I know I’m not your typical witch or wizard, but I’m still pretty magical. I’m smart and willing to learn. Can I bring my bong to Hogwarts? I can use my wand to light the dankity dank Professor Sprout grows down in the greenhouses. Yeah man. Yeah. I feel I need special magical training. Growth charms, auguamenti for cotton mouth.. ACCIO LIGHTER! All very useful for a stoner. Help a lady-bro out, man.

Sincerely, A stoner.

Roses are red

Violets are blue

I’ll hit this bong

And then pass it to you

I’m glad my cactus doesn’t need much care. Seriously. I like plants, but I hate having to keep shit alive. Good thing I don’t want kids.

Sometimes I wish I said things like “thou” and “shall” and various other ye olde English phrases. Or a British accent. I just want everything I say to sound better by default.

These are pot-thoughts.

I used to spend my nights at the gas station. Yeah bitch, you wanna go back to my place? Fucking right I got a condom machine on the wall, I know how to have a good time. Spot me a quarter and meet me in the stall.

When I put on bronzer and lie in the sun, I sparkle like Edward Cullen. On this point, I have many mixed emotions.

Are you taking a survey? No, I just like the clip board.

Beat it with a stick. No, that’s a terrible idea.

There are too many dicks on the internet.

You can have all the ham in my giant pork fortress. Ham can be a wonderful experience.

Ow, just ripped off my pinky toe.

Her bloodstream can only be described as “creamy.”

Do the voice overs help you? Because I find them helpful.

I don’t really like moisture, or the word moist.

It irks me something chronic.

Do not beat-box Edgar Allen Poe.

Cheese in stuffed crust pizza comes in giant string cheese logs.

Baby pandas are even more fucked up on the Spanish channel.

I saw a fucking midget today. It was almost as tall as the mailbox it was getting mail from. And they even let the little guy drive. How cute.

I wigged out on the way to class. I was all high, right? And I saw a silver car with stuff on the roof in my rearview mirror, and I assumed it was a cop and that I was going to jail. So I pulled into a church parking lot for a little rest, you know? Fucking car drives by and guess what it is? A goddamned SUBARU OUTBACK. Those weren’t blue-lights, they were bike racks, and I’m a dumbass for getting pulled over by a Subaru.

Sometimes, the phrase “Freshly steamed and lightly sauced” describes the muncher more than the munchee... man.

I don’t know why people insist on naming inanimate objects. Bongs, cars, pipes, Frisbees, bikes, mopeds, basketballs. What the fuck ever. It could be a toaster and it still wouldn’t need a fucking name. You know why? BECAUSE IT CAN’T HEAR YOU ASSHOLE. IT’S NOT ALIVE.

I hate reading out loud in class. Reading for everyone is bad, but the listening to everyone else is worse. It’s not hard to read, and you’re at least 23 years old. Can you stop sounding out “inconsequential” like you’re trying to sound out “The black cat ran.” ? No? I didn’t think so Rain-man. Sit the fuck down.