what's up, buttercup?

I’m the PM on a little big deal job that has us as sub to another firm. Last week I sent an email to the prime clearly marked “consultant team distribution list” and asking for review of some strawman docs and about meeting attendees. No response, yo. Then this morning the mo’fo forwarded my entire email to the client. Good thing my original email was classy. But still, rage.

This has been a vent.

I went to Humboldt. Some people think that’s a euphemism for smoking weed. And in my case perhaps it is (though I got a kick ass environmental engineering degree out of the gig too). I smoked-a the ganja. A lot. Too much. I had a friend who had a nervous breakdown at age 19 because of too much strong herb combined with too many mushroom trips and a headtrip boyfriend.

I think that all those bong hits of the diggity dank made me dumber. In my case, this is maybe kinda ok because I was too smart to begin with, but I wouldn’t mind having my brain cells back, to do the crazy maths and reconjugate verbs and remember semi-cogent debates about string theory. Being high is not that great, at least to me, at least after awhile. (I always liked that split second of brain aspyhxia brought about by the initial moment of the smoke hitting my blood (or was that oxygen depravation).) The fact is, pot made me too intense, too flighty, too rainbows and butterflies oh my. I once ate too much of a too-strong brownie at a festival and I just wanted to hide in my tent because the whole shabang felt like the part of Pinocchio where he’s at the crazytown circus and WTF kind of bullshit trip is that when I shoulda been grooving to Michael Franti?!

So I don’t smoke anymore. I like me sober, or me with a couple glasses of wine. Fucked up me doesn’t remember the funny things people said or what it feels like to wake up without bong cough. It was a phase, an era even, and one I’m glad to have trucked on by.