So I have been living my daily life, quite tediously, around a post-it note covered in marijuana.
Allow me to explain.
Earlier this week, I found a mysterious roach in a candle on my nightstand. It was definitely not mine and Roommate is not a smoker (atleast to my knowledge), so this was quite intriguing. I tossed it in the trash, still pretty bewildered but pretty much resigned to the fact that this was one mystery I’d never solve. Days passed, and I forgot all about it. That was until I was hanging out with Jon, getting ready for an art opening at my school (read: pre-gaming on boxed wine) and talking to Roommate when somehow the topic of pot came up. I quickly de-briefed him (Roommate) on my mysterious finding. He 100% did not believe me and insisted it was probably just a stray flake of white sage or other incense since we both burn them regularly. I got so frustrated at his skepticism that I was left with no choice but to, naturally, dump out the trash from my bedroom (on my bed, in the heat of the moment…mind you I was 3 glasses of wine deep at this point) and paw through it for the roach. I found it and proudly presented him with it.
“That’s definitely a roach,” he replies. I give him the “no shit”/deadface (:|).
I turn and resume my conversation with Jon, while Roommate proceeds to gingerly, expertly slice open the roach and empty its contents onto the nearest … you guessed it, post-it note. This minor act brings about a whole set of its own ethical dilemmas. We discuss our possibilities – I mean, it’s probably enough to get a little high off of, but neither of us are overly interested in it and thusly don’t even own any sort of smoking mechanism. I briefly reminisce about smoking out of Diet Coke cans (which eventually turns into a discussion on how Roommate never really liked Diet Coke and so we agree that future references to pot-smoking cans should simply and always be, “soda cans” to appease all parties). To throw it into the trash seems wasteful, an act that would certainly be inconsiderate of those less fortunate than I – as one’s mother might say, “what about all those poor, bored teenagers in China who would do anything for that marijuana?!” We place the paper off to the side of the stovetop, next to the coffee cake I’ve baked and my nursing research textbook, and carry on with the rest of our nights.
DENIAL The next morning I wake a little before 6 (as is standard on clinical days) and pad out to the kitchen to start the percolator. I see the pot, I freeze, I contemplate, I remember, I want a Diet Coke. I shake my head, smirk and gently push it aside so that I may make my lunch. Fast forward to around 4pm, I am finally home after a long day and now getting ready to go to work. Roommate is gone, he’s left for a leisurely trip to upstate NY. I see the weed again. I think of licking my finger, sticking it in the pile and eating it. Why this is the first thing that comes to mind, I don’t know. It’s about the size of a finger tip and I’m sure I could get all of it in one swipe. I leave it be and head to work.
ANGER I get home around 10 and need to take a quick shower before going out for the night. But first, some coffee cake would really hit the spot. I have to reach over the weed, careful not to disturb it while cutting the cake. I slide it to the left of the stovetop, coffee cake to the right. I begin to think here that maybe it’s time to ditch this hindrance. Not only is it unsightly and cumbersome (and, um illegal), but now it’s invading my coffee cake space.
This morning, it’s still there. Well, fucking, of course it is. It’s just me in the apartment, and now I know – something needs to be done. A decision needs to be made before Roommate gets home Sunday night and wonders how I’ve lived these past 3 days without throwing out or even spilling any of the roach contents.
BARGAINING I work, I go to the gym, I study, all the while leaving the menace untouched. I still have about 16 hours to decide its fate. I think to myself, it might be OK to just leave it here until I “need” to move it, such as when my mom comes to visit. Or the police. I do worry what Roommate might think of me when he comes home and it’s still here, but I worry more about what he’d think if he somehow found out I had moved it from the stove and into my bedroom. I ponder this action, but it seems entirely to commital – to the pot, to the lifestyle, I just can’t be associated with that right now. I’d rather leave it out in the open, no questions asked, no secrets: “here it is, I haven’t smoked it, I haven’t hidden it.”
I go grocery shopping, alone with my thoughts, wishing I could barter this marijuana for something small. Maybe a pear. I really like Anjou, and they’re even on sale this week. Surely this pot is worth atleast $1.69 (if not more). I think about my friends, people I know who might enjoy this small bit. It only seems sensical to add it to someone else’s growing collection rather than to start my own at this point in my life. Disposal is still not a viable option.
DEPRESSION I get home, 50 pounds of groceries in my arms, up 3 flights of stairs, panting heavily… and meakly reach out a trembling, overworked arm to slide the post-it to the side of the stove so that I may put my groceries up there. I knock it slightly with a bag of plums, and immediately jump to check on its well-being. Whew. Close one. I move it to the upper left corner, just to be safe. On second thought, I create a kitty-corner barricade with my nursing textbook. This is becoming very sad.
ACCEPTANCE It’s just a punctuation in my day. An exclamation point, then a question mark, now slowly morphing into a comma or maybe even a semicolon..so ambiguous, no one really knows what to do with it, the perfect representative of my current situation; a weed limbo of sorts.