Anti abandons the internet.

it's finally over, thank fucking god.

Thursday, March 24, 2005

 
He parked around the corner because he preferred to remain as discreet as possible, but when he approached the front of the house, he realized there was no parking and he would have had to park on the other street regardless.

he was tempted to look at the houses in the neighborhood to check for staring old ladies, or anyone who might be paying too much attention... But knew that if someone WAS watching, looking around only made things look more suspicious. Besides, no one ever suspected anything, it was the paranoia talking...

he walked up the steps to the house, pulled back the ratty falling-apart screen door, and knocked lightly as he twisted the door knob and eased his way inside. When he finally swung his head around, he saw his drug dealer holding his hand over a few zip lock freezer bags stuffed so full of weed they looked like they were stretching the plastic, with his jaw dropped and his eyes bulging. But the drug dealers faced eased and melted into relaxation when he realized it was friend and not foe.

they nodded at eachother saying simultaneously, "wassapppp???" and slapping hands and punching fists.

he sat down in the chair next to the drug dealer's spot on the side of the couch. And was asked, "so man, what are looking for?"

he replied back to the dealer, "a quarter, like always..." And felt sort of annoyed that it was even a question at this point. He figured that it should be common knowledge before words leave his mouth, that the dealer should have noticed that over the years, it's ALWAYS a quarter. But then again... Who gives a shit, so he shrugs it off, and rifles through the pile of magazines on the coffee table while the drug dealer pulls out the miniature digital scale.

long slender nuggets of the highest grade marijuana are delicately balanced on the weighing tray, until the flickering digital number on the side hovers around 7.5 - 7.6, and he pretends not to watch over the top of an ancient rolling stone magazine.

seeing that everything was as good as sold, he threw down a stiff one hundred dollar bill, and walked straight into the kitchen where he knew to find the sandwich baggies, and walked back in to find a two foot glass bong being pointed at him, "bong hit?"

"sure why not..."

he threw the baggy on the coffee table, and grabbed the bong with one hand while he fished for his lighter in his jeans with his other hand. Once he found his lighter he sat down, and proceeded to make himself cough. But the drug dealer didn't seem to notice, it was if the coughing fell silent on his ears.

seeing a lull in the conversation, he jumped up off the end of the couch, and announced, "I think I'm gonna peace out man"

and the dealer replied, "alright, dude. Call me later..."

and he nodded, although he knew he wouldn't call later. He would only call again when the pot ran out and he needed to re-up his stash.

he was careful to not walk back the way he came, and went around the block the long way to make sure no neighbors saw too much traffic back and fourth. So as not to raise any suspicion.

and this song and dance was replayed so many times, and WILL BE replayed so many times. It's getting to be ri-goddamned-diculous.






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