"Ofcourse too much moisture in your lungs can cause problems, its called drowning..."
-strange words of wisdom, made stranger or wiser or funnier by their source, a conversation board on cannabis.com concerning whether ice in a bong is bad for your throat.
Ladies and gentlemen, my night, my life.
I am feeling good. I just smoked a lot of weed from my bong, which I had put a lot of cold water from my fridge in, thinking my lungs would like the feeling. And then I thought how good it felt, how great it would be with ice, remembered some stoners in college who were real serious about the stuff, I went to that type of school, and they had ice bongs, that is if I remembered correctly, and I wanted to see if I did, wanted to see exactly how these things worked, whether such products were sold, and if so, how much these things cost, wondered this cause I kind of really wanted one of these which I was more and more remembering or believing existed and thinking about how much pleasure this would give my life not only in this moment but also in so many future moments. The payday was seeming big, large - the potential returns vast.
I downloaded many albums illegally, though I hesitate to say that in these days of precise Google searches and logarithms, wondering if maybe I shouldn't tell you this, wondering if perhaps the RIAA might not have some program in place, technical thing, to scour blogs for sources of people discussing such practices, and then going after them, knowing who was infringing on these laws. "PARANOID!" A response said several times in that same earlier referenced thread, the commentators (so many!) occasionally responding to one of his questions posed, answers with that word: paranoid. Downloaded albums that I am so excited about listening to, drank wine, and wanted to acquire things, to be involved with them - this relationship between people and bands and the songs these bands sing and the things these bands may or may not actually represent - and whatever the feelings were, the things were, I was feeling really good, was feeling alive, interested in a way and with an intensity about current music, current art, that I haven't felt in a long time, and felt really good, that maybe I am not as old or as not as boring as I think old needs to be, that I do still care about these things, that art, despite a boredom of late with most forms of it I have had, still does have the power to rock me, to make me want to dance, to make me hold my hand close to my heart and mouth manohman like a drunk uncle might that's really into the blues, a white uncle. And I was really into these sounds, these feelings, these ways of presenting things. I was feeling rock and roll in a way that I hadn't in a while. Rock and roll, oh man, the things it does. It brings me to life and makes my dick slightly hard and also impossibly soft and makes me sad and insanely happy, always one of the two, always an intense feeling, that it was and is all do or die, that it all meant something, means something. There was always the feeling, the intense relationship with the present and the past and the future, really straddling the tip of a triangle perhaps the most you ever will, and the constant feelings despite their inconsistency and huge swings between faraway poles, that this is what rock and roll is, why it so much of a certain time in the lives of most people. The loudness simply amplifying in a way large enough to let you get off from the pain that this life causes and the pleasure we are granted when we recognize that pain and you can play it louder and louder and a feeling of catharsis can occur, you can expel it all, all the fucking shit, bringing all that stuff to the surface, limbs thrashing forward to a nonexistant stage, a nonexistant audience, as you dance in your kitchen, wanting to cry, but not knowing exactly why, except that it is all so fucking beautiful despite it all, so fucking beautiful.
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