1/11/09, 2:30 PM
Drug dealers are the single least punctual people in the world. It doesn’t surprise me- the nature of their work makes a mockery of timeliness. The product they’re selling (weed, in my case) makes the user lazy, forgetful, and fascinated by interesting-looking lights, and I’ve never met a dealer that didn’t smoke. I’ve waited hours past an agreed-upon callback time only for one of my guys to say they wouldn’t be able to meet up that day.
I always envision one of my dealers sprawled out stoned in a recliner, glancing precariously back and forth between a ringing cell phone and a Jeffersons marathon, unable to decide which takes priority over his next half-hour. Today, one of my buddy’s dealers is apparently moving, not off his ass, but on up to the east side.
The problem with buying from new guys is that you seldom know what the hell you’re gonna get. A buddy of mine once hooked me up with his dealer when I was jonesing real bad for some bud, and I paid eighty bucks for a very small amount of low-end high-grade marijuana. It took me a while to realize that the mid-grade gets me just as high, sometimes higher, than the orange-haired, white crystalline, lime green pot. Don’t get me wrong; I like smoking very good weed every once in a while. It makes me feel fancy. But I can’t sustain a pot habit at those prices for very long.
I’ll write more once I’m stoned. So, hopefully soon.
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