I Just Want My Big Bag of Weed Back
I’m dealing with a crisis right now that comes along once in a while for anyone who enjoys something material that can be picked up and carried away. In the process of moving between apartments yesterday, somebody stole my big bag of weed.
The first thing people think when they hear a guy claim someone stole his big bag of weed is that the missing maryjane has more to do with the combined effects of paranoia and forgetfulness attributed to smoking big bags of weed than an actual thief. But I assure you, I am not some dumb teenage asshole. I am a grown-ass man who likes his weed. And I buy big bags of it so that I can smoke it freely, minimizing the need to converse with shady drug dealers but once a month.
The reason it’s especially difficult for me to accept this predicament is that, of all the intoxicants out there, weed is the only one that I truly love. I’m not much for drinking, I hate cocaine hangovers, and I lost interest in hallucinogens shortly after college. Weed is my only release and I do it every day with great zeal. I’m not a dick about it. I don’t smoke before work, I don’t binge, I don’t do it blatantly where it’s not appropriate. I don’t slang some of my bud to schoolchildren at inflated prices. And you know what? In a world such as this, where there are no rules, where a man’s big bag of weed isn’t safe in his own home, why shouldn’t I? Goddamnit.
I’m sorry for getting a bit emotional, but I am really upset. I was all prepared to move to a new neighborhood without having to worry about where I would find weed for a little while until my big bag of weed ran out. Now I’m fucked, I will have to grind hard to get some decently priced, quality trees on top of getting furniture and setting up all my apartment shit.
Facing this tragedy, I can’t help but play the blame game. There are two possible culprits. One is my landlord’s cleaning lady, who has been in and out of my apartment for the last few weeks because they are selling the place. Apparently, I live so disgustingly that my old apartment isn’t presentable until a Mexican lady blasts through my room, unsafely stacks my music gear, mixes my dirty laundry with my clean clothes, and steals my fucking big bag of weed.
If it wasn’t the cleaning lady, I have another theory. I gave my boy Basim my old bed and dresser to use in his new place. So, the other suspects are the two guys who helped him move that shit out of the apartment. I didn’t see those dudes, but Basim said they were not particularly shady. But who knows? His standards for shadiness are way lower than mine—I’ve seen him have conversations with straight lunatics. Nevertheless, I trust him, even though he weirdly offered me money, which makes it seem like he’s lying to me and is feeling guilty about it. But that’s probably just his retarded way of making me feel better. I don’t want money, I want my bud.
What I want to put out into the world right now is a message for the person who stole my trees: If you have any decency in you, you’ll give me back my motherfucking big bag of weed. Even though I’m livid and noticeably unstoned right now, I’ll forgive this whole ordeal if you just roll up to me and hand it over. Even if there’s a little missing, I’ll just look the other way. So, just be cool and give me back my big bag of weed, please. Fucking please.
If you have any information as to the whereabouts of Abdullah’s bag of weed please contact him at [email protected].
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