One beautiful Saturday, I was lying on the couch in my living room playing guitar solos. I’d just eaten a piece of weed brownie the size of my thumbnail and my evening plans included nothing but guitar skronk noises and maybe ordering Thai at some point. Then my phone rang and holy shit my best friend was back in town! She’d been traveling for months so I got on my bike and rode over to her house where she immediately started telling me she was breaking up with her long-term boyfriend so she could date a travelling circus guy. It was at that point, sitting on the floor of her room, I remembered the brownie. Oh no, the brownie, I thought. I was really fucking high.
My friend stalked her room, listing the reasons her current relationship wasn’t working, and I pulled a heavy art book off her bookshelf. I began turning its massive, colorful pages—hoping that somehow the art would calm me. I do not remember anything concrete about the book. I only remember an unreasonable terror that I was about to ruin an important friendship because I was so thoughtlessly stoned.