Self-Medication – The process

The first thing I did was separate the seeds and sticks from the cluster. Every tiny seed lifted by the eyebrow plucker and dropped into the jar. The sticks, plucked of their clinging fruit by the aforementioned eyebrow plucker, were also dropped into the jar. I then closed the jar and put it away. I am saving my seeds and sticks for Herbal Tea.

I then picked off a small portion of the cluster, a pinch or two. Using the new grinder, clusters became loose debris.  I was focused. Extraordinarily focused. The process was repeated. When the cluster was completely converted, I then pulled out out the rolling papers. I like zig-zags. Using a credit card I once reported as stolen, I arranged the grass into a pile. Everything but a centigram or two was scraped into another jar. This jar, like the other, has an airtight lid. Although instead of sporting “stems and sticks” in permanent marker on the lid, this jar was unlabeled, a design of fruit on metal replacing the green ink on plastic. This jar is my favorite, it is my first jar. A girl named Jill gave it to me. She offered to paint it, but I wanted it as is. This is where I keep the grass I roll into joints.

I was reminising. This is good. This means my heart rate was down, that I’m not thinking about money or school or my parents or Pete or old friends or new friends or any of the million things that spark this anxiety. I was focused. Rabidly focused on not thinking at all. Jill was tall. She was white with freckles and her boyfriend was Henry. She worked. I don’t remember where, but it was either a bar or an art gallery. Or maybe she was a student. Fuck. What did Jill do? What was her job? It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. She gave me this jar. She gave it to me because I smoked her up, I gave her weed when she was feeling tense. Jill was pretty. Henry was pretty. I find myself always wanting to be other people. I’m not sure that’s a good thing, but what I’m trying to say, is that I somehow wanted to be Jill and Henry, both of them, at the same time. But then they broke up, so it’s probably not a good idea to consider the implications of that.

I want to get better at rolling joints. So I decided to look up instructions on the internet. At this point, I was listening to Wilco.  Wilco and I hummed along. We were connecting. The band and I and the music and I. I was letting myself get silly. Silly is the opposite of anxious. Silly was good. Silly was better than reminising. I googled “how to roll a joint” and ended up on a dutch website. There were pictures and text. Using a paper, a rolled up slip of notecard (as a filter), my lighter, and the possibly two centigrams of weed, I focused on rolling a joint. Rolling a joint. The first joint failed. I destroyed it and rolled another. I was sober this whole time. But my self-induced calm was slowly beginning to fade. I needed to do this right. Focused. The joint ended up looking just fine. And using the orange bic, I list the joint.




Jenny Lewis and the Watson Twins.


I want to tell my parents about this. That I do this to make myself better without putting anything synthesized in my brain. That I control this. That I’m not a drug-addict, just someone who’s seeking a better existence.

What makes your life livable some days?