Smoking in the Big Apple

Stoned in the City

I’m about two buildings down from the Empire State Building smoking some New York chronic from a lamp fixture. Blowing the smoke out the window as the hot sewer stench from the streets billows into my air-conditioned room. Theres street sweepers, garbage vacuums and other prehistoric monsters eating all the shit that two million people left behind them today.
    I’ve been in midtown Manhattan now for about two and a half weeks. Most of the time has been spent in the room cause I’ve been on a paranoia binge all day long. And then at night I go out and get my sanity. I find myself riding the subways back and forth just to see who will get on at two in the morning. I know what I’m doing there but what the fuck are they doing there?
    One chump is just getting off from a construction site at two in the morning. He looks like he works in a cashew bottling company. But he smells like the farts from a billion zombies have been rotting just under his plastic raincoat.
    A couple of winos get on. They start talking about playing baseball in high school. One fuker was hitting a home run one in three at bats. The other swears that if he trained for a month to get his mind back in the game he could probably get back to where he was in college.
    Just the noise from leaving this apartment drives me out of my mind.
I love when you get roasted and then you go to the fridge and plow anything that looks good. I’ve made the most amazing crap sandwiches when I get super high. Right now I’ve put two pieces of wheat bread into the fridge. I’m gonna make the sandwich from hell tonight. Probably two of them. It sounds like tractors are having sex out my window.
    I just tore the shit out of the kitchen. Mowed through at least $300 worth of groceries. During the day time I’ll spy into the office in the building across from me. I still love when the hot ash shoots into the back of your throat. That?s probably what I miss most about the funny pipe. I’ve still got the funny pipe in my memory box.
    My stomach is huge these days. I’ve been getting all you can eat sushi from a place two blocks south-east from the hotel. I’ll eat six plates filled with sushi and then I’ll slam a bunch of vegetables at the end so my body can process it.
    Now I’m smoking weed from a fork cause that lamp fixture wasn?t working out. My ass is all wet cause I fell into the toilet. Now I’m doing headspins and blowing a ring of turds out my ass. I finally lose momentum and look around the room. There is a storm of turds sprayed all over the walls, the television, the sofa-couch, the small tables.
    Finally I got some mean weed in my system.
I’ve got a violent distaste for servos. So if I’m eating a mechanical chicken I’ll run a magnet over it and then I’ll choose what piece I’m going to eat.
    In Tijuana we smoked weed in toilet paper. I’m about to do the same. My fork pipe didn’t work out. The window is still open and it sounds like there is a car wrecking plant next door. I hear yelling like the entire women’s field hockey team is constantly calling my name. If I shut that window I will lose all connection to the outside world. I’ll be stuck back in this observation box. The room is bugged and there are cameras everywhere. If I even attempt to rearrange my nuts, a robot arm comes out from the wall and shreds my dick to bits.

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