The weed that was supposed to have been smoked ages ago, like two years, was still probably hanging around in the rosewood armoire somewhere. Back awhile, Shep had had somebody to smoke it with, but not any longer. There was one he would, and she’d just basically feel a hypersensitive physical acuity to all things involving the sense of touch that made her laugh. She’d get high and do repetitive motions with little sense of, it seemed, how many times she had already circled like a slow motion boxer her two fists in slo-mo replay mode. The stuff was lying around, unused, untouched, and he lit up. No, it’s not a passage to a higher realm of consciousness; it’s not acid. It was a verbal cerebral thing with him, depending, too, on what brand you had in your pipe.
They do all sorts of different things. But mainly it made him think in words which he would, if it were possible, write down. Or even audio record it, he’d done that, too. Now he was thinking about some girl he’d known a few crazy nights who’d had all these abstract esoteric ideas that he could actually go along with, but when she got to her Jesus stuff, he just as soon crossed his legs. The self-amusement of his loneliness made him think of her anyway. These were old shenanigans. They were all just old performances in old theaters he’d just be pretty much be going though the motions of, if he had. Worn out plays. They didn’t have the oomph. It’s just better to get just a bit mellow, scoop out a handful of Hägaan-Daz scoops of chocolate ice cream into a pretty-looking, red-checkered bowl from France, and lie back to watch a movie like Lawrence of Arabia which he’d just found out the day before became available to stream.