Originally Posted by od1nixer

Have you ever walked into work after your lunch hour, and suddenly realized that you are way too ****ed up to deal with such a thing? I mean really, really high? I'm talking wasted. At first you think it's just the pot, and you're really stoned. Maybe it was that rollie cigarette with the shake you found in your boots mixed in that you smoked on the ride back to work. Might have been the smooth black and mild blunt you smoked in the garage on your way out of the house. Couldn't have been the 9-10 bong rips you power-lunged on the couch after you walked in the door. Definitely wasn't the bowl you were smoking on in the car even before you left the parking lot at work. You're way too high to making decisions like "Should I shut off my headlights?" let alone be functioning in the workplace. You find yourself knee-deep in a conversation about snowtires with another worker-bee before you realize that the waters are too cold and you should jump out. Just as you're about to make a break for it, you're forced to remember that rail of crushed up darvalortabpercosette or whatever the f.uck it was (God only knows with my friends who shoved it in front of me; it was probably a mixture of numerous drugs laid out into a twix bar sized mound). Not only by the raunchy drip in the back of your throat, but also by the rubbery feeling that just raced from your head to your toes. Oh yeah, that's the stuff! Definitely some sort of painkillers in there.
You snap back to reality and feel the urge to bark and snort at the idiot babbling about snowtires. He doesn't even flinch; takes it in stride and continues talking. Am I becoming that predictable? You finally get to sit and hide for a moment, and realize that there's a pungent odor seeping up from your pockets. Upon further investigation, you discover you have a ridiculous sum of pot on your person. Upwards of two and a half ounces. What the f.uck were you thinking? Maybe your judgement might have been impaired by the beer that was handed to you as you walked in the living room by one of the people still pouring on a wicked bender. When your roommates realize you're home, the buzzer sounds and instant chaos ensues. It's a mad dash to pump you full of as much and as many substances as they can. Christ on a crutch! I hope I didn't take any doses, slipping into a trip right now, whoa, that would be really bad. The next 20 minutes blur as you speed past any form of coherent consciousness. Your plans of taking a shower and sobering up were gone long before you started the chain smoking, and cursing your garage full of useless car and bike parts.
When you become aware of the fact you've drank two beers and now you have to go back to work (as if you didn't smell like an ashtray flavored air-freshener already) you frantically search for some food to hopefully drown out the alchohol on your breath. As expected, the crackheads have cleaned out any substance that resembled sustanance, so a wine cooler and a double cracker cheese sandwich will suffice. You scramble to find any cigarette, but to no avail. Your tub of rolling tobacco is hidden under your bed, so when you reach down to grab it, you realize you've forgotten why you went home in the first place. Your shoes! You got about halfway through the morning without realizing your shoes are splattered with what looks like a pukish substance; someone had a rough night! As you reach for your boots, you find another bag of hash, shake, and possibly some keef. Throw that into a cigarette, and you're ready to rock and roll. You notice the lump in your bed doesn't look quite right, and strangely blonder than what should be there, but out of fear, you leave it alone and hope to ignore it. You swim through a crowd of zombies, and smoke, looking for an exit. Fresh air and sunlight are almost in sight when you're grabbed by your crotch and redirected to the kitchen pantry. When your eyes start to work together all you can see is tan ******* and blonde hair. Oooh ooh ooh ooh WEEE! Ah but this will get ugly, as you've forgotten her name. This girl, this beautiful, previously innocent girl who courted you and melted your heart last night. Who spent the better part of three hours conversating with you, and ultimately professing undying love for you. YOU have forgotten her name. But there's no time for that, you make out like fourteen year olds at the roller rink for thirty seconds followed by "Hey baby, I hope I'll see you tonight" You disregard her response as you're enchanted by the black and mild dank stick in her ear, holding back some beautiful locks of blonde hair that still look good after a night of partying. You snag the blunt and exit stage left.
As you firmly grasp the doorknob to freedom, you ponder why there is a full blown circus in your house. With any luck, you just forgot that it was someone's birthday, and this will all be over in a few days. Wincing as you step through the door, praying to God that the elephants and the rest of the circus aren't in the garage, you realize it's worse. Better spark that blunt, it's gonna get bumpy. Your best buddy Brett is in the garage elbow deep in the front end of your truck. After analyzing the time situation, you decide you're not going to ask what he's doing to your truck. Instead, you stick the blunt in his mouth, and jump in with him. I just remembered that part when I was sitting at work later, and thought that someone rubbed ink all over me and my desk while I was sleeping at my desk. Thankfully, it was just motor oil.

You're already late, so why not stay and finish the blunt, and help your friend accomplish essentially nothing. As much fun as that wasn't, you thought it better to make like a tree and leave rather than make like a pig and stink. So you kick it in gear. You snag the pooch who lookes a little bit worse for the wear, and haul *** out the driveway. As you're cranking the hardshit in the stereo to windshield shattering levels, you light your rollie. Got to have the music loud enough to knock those stupid f.ucking nic-nacs off the shelf in your ex's mom's house at the end of the block by the time you get there. F.ucking witch tried putting me, I mean you, in jail. Got to teach her a lesson, right? Done and done, now you can turn off that obnoxiously loud music. You hit the radio, and break into "Sweet Caroline" which makes you think of drunken stories on stuntlife of Dr. Death's superior vocals. That reminds me, my *** itches, scratch scratch scratch, and a quick check that I didn't crap my pants ala 1000ceecee style. Everything is gravy until you notice there's a run in the rollie. A little dab will do ya, and next thing you know you're heading into oncoming traffic. Overcorrect, and you're headed straight for some limp-dick bicyclist that should get out of my way. Lucky for him, you swerve in time for him to catch some of that gravel you lofted his way. "Your mother's a *****!" If you don't know how to ride a bike, you shouldn't be in my way.
You get back to work just in time to be only a half hour late, whew, good thing too. You realize you didn't provide the dog with proper ventilation, and you're pretty sure he's stoned. It's okay, he won't tell on you he's a trooper. He walks in and snaps his treat out of a coworkers hand, and it looks like the dumbass let your dog nip his finger in his munchy-craving greed. You laugh maniacly as he whines like a bitch. The dog goes straight to his food bowl, and drinks every last drop of water before starting to eat. He eventually passes out in the food bowl, and remains there for the afternoon.

F.ucking A Rights, don't you hate it when you have a day like this? Has this ever happened to you?


.....................me neither

Originally Posted by od1nixer

every day, he goes everywhere with me. I don't think I've ever left him alone except when I ride.

Originally Posted by ChrisNoF4i

Pay attention dude, we learned that **** in like Chapter 3.

Originally Posted by od1nixer

I don't know. I've been awful jittery lately. Hands shaking and s.hit. That s.hit almost made me quit smoking, too. Dr. Kris said it differs from person to person. My dad took it to quit smoking, and it didn't do **** for him. Maybe I'm just not used to having drugs in my system.
Either that or I'm just cracked out on crack. Who knows.

And Sclevela, I work for a freight brokerage. I'm just a secretary/intern/slave in a small office, so Cujo just sits in the window and sleeps all day.