Meditations on Misery

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I hate weed. Absolutely fucking abhor it. Many find this not only a source of incredulity because I’m a Californian, but also because of how much they truly believe in its beneficial effects. How goddamn beautiful it is to be high. Maybe it is for some (or most), but it’s never felt that way to me. No, it’s always given me the sensation of what it would be like to have a lobotomy or to have bashed my head against a wall repeatedly in order to experience what I Heart Huckabees refers to as “pure being.”

It isn’t just the mental sensation weed causes that makes me loathe every leaf of it. It’s the odor (like damp laundry left out for days) and the culture. If that’s what one chooses to call it. Yes, the “community” of pot smokers and the understanding they have for one another. It’s as though they all feed off one another’s enthusiasm for this shitty drug, thereby allowing them to justify their addiction. And it is an addiction. What makes it different from other addictive substances—chiefly alcohol—are the many accoutrements involved in the art of actually smoking it. The aboundment of paraphernalia required to enjoy this drug to its utmost.  

Even when one is smoking a simple spliff, there’s too much process involved. So much work just so one can relax and do nothing, when one could just as easily do so without paying upwards of fifty dollars to obtain the materials “needed” to unwind. This is the other source of vexation that arises when judging the weed smoking set: their seemingly total inability to cope with reality. If sober existence is such a hardship, perhaps one ought to consider suicide instead. It’s far more financially viable in the long run. Besides, sometimes it’s nobler to experience the simple agonies of everyday life without the crutch that is weed. Whatever happened to good old-fashioned masochism (unless you’ve got cancer or glaucoma, then I understand completely)?

Everyone tends to be shocked and hurt by my lack of affinity for weed. They assume that my slow reflexes and monotone voice make me an obvious candidate for pot smoking fiend. But it’s not my bag (so please keep yours to yourself). And I wish others would stop trying to make it so. I often feel like I need to make a documentary in the vein of Bill Maher’s Religulous, except instead of convincing everyone that religion is a delusion, I’m convincing them that pot is a delusion. A placebo for being calm, when all you really need to do is just deal with your fucking shit without being a bitch about it. That’s it. That’s all you have to do. You don’t need Bob Marley’s ashes to do it (I maintain all ganja is simply Bob Marley’s remains).  

Then, of course, there’s the “weed makes me creative” angle people like to play. But creativity is somehow rendered more meaningless when the drug comes up with the idea (usually one that only sounds brilliant whilst high) and not you. Reliance on “an altered mind state” for genius means you’re probably not a genius. 

The other argument people like to present is that you have to find the weed strain that’s right for you. Kind of like the epic quest for the perfect therapist after seeing about twenty of them. For me, if I’m not lying down in an alley wanting the high to pass or seeing sepia tones, I’m rocking back and forth in a state of paranoia or experiencing none of the effects people seem to love about this drug so much. Thus, I don’t think there is a strain that’s right for me. 

The next time I bother with inhaling a tobacco-laden joint and burning the shit out of my lung (which is probably going to be sooner than I would care to acknowledge), I’m going to turn to the person who rolled it and demand that an edible be presented. As that’s the only way for non-weed smokers to deal with potheads. Their addiction breeds another addiction for those who must endure them. Who knows? Maybe it all goes back to the idea that a person can only be friends with “their own kind” (no, that’s not a race reference). 

© Genna Rivieccio 2014

 

 


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One Sunday night, I decide to indulge in some white wine sauce with mussels (how else is one supposed to cope with being a plebe who has to be somewhere on Monday?). After I eat a bevy of these mussels, I go into the bathroom to relieve myself (saying “piss” or “pee” sounds too colloquial for my taste). The way in which I squat allows me to look squarely at my labia, which is so disgustingly similar to mussels that I almost want to retch. There they are: the same folds, the same alien-like aesthetic, the same membraneous look. I can’t stop staring at it and flashing back to all the, for all intents and purposes, labias I just ate. And yes, I know labia is the plural of labium, but labias just sounds better to me, alright?

I have to ask myself how I manage to continue eating such foul sea fare when all I think about every time I bite into one is the incredible resemblance it bears to my vagina. Why do I keep coming back for more if this is the only association I make with it? Am I an undercover lesbian? Do I secretly want to eat pussy? I have no idea. All I know is, I shouldn’t want to keep eating mussels, because they look utterly repugnant. Everything about them is so overtly sexual. The way you cook them and the shell just opens, like a goddamn pair of legs. 

Yes, to be sure, eating mussels is an obscene act. One that should be done alone and in embarrassment. It’s like you’re some sort of fetishist who gets your jollies from consuming only those culinary delights that specifically resemble genitalia. I carry my secret shame with me. I feel like everyone else knows that mussels look like labias, but no one wants to call it out because it would ruin their appetite for this particular seafood for life. And that’s another thing. Mussels are from the ocean, adding to their vaginal comparisons in terms of odor. Yet, in spite of all these obvious connections, everyone seems to be perfectly at ease with taking a voracious bite from a sauce-laden bowl of mollusks. Well, I won’t be silent anymore: labias and mussels are the same thing. And I’ll be damned if I try to deny it any longer. But, of course, I won’t stop eating them. Like the pussy, they’re just too good.

© Genna Rivieccio 2014


In life and in death, just like the rest of us.

In life and in death, just like the rest of us.