Hi. I've never posted on this board before. My name is Cory, and I'm a 20 year old college guy who lives in Portland OR with my Fiance.
This is a story I recently wrote for school about an experience I had camping about a year ago...it was one of my first times getting totally wasted.
I would love it if there are any writers in here who could give me advice or feedback on this. When I presented it to the class it wasn't really accepted very well, becuase none of them smoke weed!! :jerkit:
So anyway...I hope you like my story.
Cory Clark
WR 240
Essay Four (Nature Writing)
April 23, 2005
"Shiiiiit."
I grin like an idiot and take another hit.
"This is some fucking good shit....heh heh heh. I haven't ever been this fucking stoned...STONED!! Heh heh heh. Yeah...um...um..." I trail off, eyes glazing over as the last hit sinks fully into my mind. This is not only my third time smoking weed, second time being really stoned, and only time voluntarily camping in the woods, it's my first time to really be alone with Jessica. She and I have decided that we would spend the final days of our time together going camping and smoking weed. I had already spent about a week with her, the first week of the rest of my life, as it were... and now we were going to end it with a bang.
"Yeah..."
Jessica's eyes are pink slits as she slowly opens another can of tuna to be eaten raw. They match her hair quite nicely. I stare at this in puzzlement and wonder as the realization slowly dawns on me...
"Oh my God!", I mumble, "The trees are closing in on us!"
The trees, now two-dimensional like huge slats in some demonic log cabin, are slowly getting closer and closer, seemingly bent on my personal destruction, not to mention devastation. The smell of burning tuna fills my senses and I shudder. Is this what we've been reduced to? Are we all just molecules gathering dust in the perilous wooded glen? Have we all lost our way as small children? Why are the walls closing in, and why does the tuna smell so awful?
"It's done", says Jessica, as she walks over and hands me a sandwich, her gaze darting around, seeking some form of answer to her questions. I tear into the soft white bread and luscious tuna with the ferocity of a feral fox. A fox in socks. Like Doctor Seuss in that one book...you know? The one where he's all fucking squinty?? HA HA HA! He's fucking stoned! His eyes are so squinty and bloodshot... mother fucking chink eyes....BLAH!!!
"So anyway, how are we supposed to get back to the mainland?"
The question is just as perplexing as it is troubling.
"Um...My uncle David will pick us up on Friday."
"Well, love, that makes sense, since he's the one who dropped us off here. Why didn't you just know that by arbitrary assumption? Don't you have gumption or umption or conjunction junction, what's your function? Um...where's my sandwich?"
I stare into my empty hands. Did aliens land in our midst? Did my entrails dissolve? Did my urethra break in half? Did bears savage me, or the land, or both? Or did thieves come in the night and steal my precious cargo...the sandwich of which I speak.
"You ate it."
"I did?"
I am completely dumbfounded. Not that I ate it, but dumbfounded as to what I supposedly ate. Perhaps it's best that I should play along...just humour the girl so she doesn't become suspicious.
"Oh...yeah, I certainly did eat it!"
She gives me a coy smile. Instantly my brain pulses with thoughts of sex. Everything else is gone. Completely. Except for my insatiable lust for tuna, which is growing stronger every moment.
"Come here", I tell her as I pull her into our tent. On our way in I see a bag of cheetos and a marijuana pipe. I take another small hit and pass the pipe to Jessica, who seems annoyed. But why? Why should my one true love be annoyed at me? What is the uncharacteristic anger which threatens to consume and control, desecrate and devour? Hopelessly, I eat cheeto after cheeto, trying desperately to think of why she is so unhappy. She grabs the bag out of my hand and my first instinct is to kill her and hide her body in the woods, but I fortunately do not have the stamina to act on my first impulses. Gravity takes it's toll. As her gaze falls upon me, unfocused and yet unfettered by human social restraints, I am so turned on that I cannot control myself any longer. I crawl on top of her, spilling cheetos everywhere, and start to read the cover of a comic book next to our pillow.
"God damn it all, these funny books of the future sure are keen!"
The purpose of my over-enthusiasm is to distract Jessica from me long enough to really get a good reading in. I simply must read this book to the best of my ability, or God help me, I will surely perish.
Suddenly I am jolted back to reality, and we recommence our sultry dance of death. But hopefully there will be no actual death involved at all. I forget what I'm doing a couple times, finish the bag of cheetos, and look around the tent for what seems like hours, but at long last we are done, huddled together gasping for air, or possibly marijuana smoke, thinking only one unanimous thought...
"Should I make some more tuna?"
I stare at her blankly.
"Should I make more tuna?"
"Yes. Um...fucking yes. I would like that. Also, some more, um...bread. You know, to put the tuna in between. Do you know how to make a sandwich? Do you need my help...my expertise, as it were, in enabling my long suffering friend to make a sandwich or two? Or maybe like seven..." I say all of this to her as we are exiting the tent, walking over to the picnic table, gathering the necessary supplies for a tuna sandwich of unusual size, and then staring blankly at the ingredients, unsure of ourselves and our intentions.
I completely forget what the hell I am talking about. It seems like ages have past since my last rational thought. But then...it hits me.
"I'm not NEARLY high enough", I declare.
"The pipe's in the tent."
So I mosey on over to the tent like Clint Eastwood moseying on over to the gay bar. He does this in order to fuck men. Clint Eastwood wants to fuck men.
That was the last sane thought that passed through my consciousness for many hours. "Clint Eastwood wants to fuck men." The last vestige of hope and clarity in a new world of hurt...a world where pot smokers rule and dogs drool. A world where Jesus would have died for my sins...sins even He, the creator of the Universe, could never hope to fully comprehend. I take a huge hit, repeating my mantra as I slowly and methodically exhale: "Clint Eastwood wants to fuck men."
* * *
The sounds all stop. The echoes begin to fade away. The swirling, mewling ceiling begins to descend, lower and lower, upon us. The flat lifeless trees sway and seem to be reenacting some sort of mourning ritual. The black and white noiseless room is slowly becoming smaller, like a trash compactor. The carnival music dies away. The laughing stops. The smell of marijuana and tuna and sex and marshmallows and blood all blow away on a piercing wind, becoming nothing but a memory or a wisp of forgotten sorrow. The penetrating silence speaks to me. The cool air flows over my naked body, and the boundless confines of space shimmer past like chromium scalpels. The heat of the actual scalpel in my hands shudders into my pale arms with lightning-like intensity and purpose. They say lightning never strikes twice, or something like that, but now it strikes the same place again and again. The lustful flicks of the blade over my eager body seem like a snake's tongue promising me paradise. But soon even the bleeding cuts and tempestuous kisses of true desire seem to fade. The deep look in her eyes...the landmass of my mind. The tunnel to the innermost chambers of the junior chamber of commerce...
* * *
"Brad? ...Um...Hey Jessica... 'Dammit Janet. I'm mad, Brad'... does that sound very familiar to you? Or very familial?"
"No...should it? I mean...should it really? I mean...um..."
"Well, it's just that it's a line from the Rocky Horror Picture Show."
"Oh."
I nervously avert my gaze. I'm obviously coming down off of the dope a bit, but what about the countless instances of circumstances when coming down just a little bit isn't enough, when you need to come down a little bit more drastically...you know...the oft repeated legend of "not being high at all anymore."
"I've never seen that movie. I wanted to though."
"Well, we will then."
She was lying to me!
"We will have to buy it. I mean, I was planning on buying it anyway...I was planning on owning that movie. So we'll just buy it, right? That will work out just fine."
Even as I make the assertion, I'm not so sure.
"Ok", she replies.
"Ok."
Hours pass. Countless unnerving hours. Will the FBI and their countless affiliates send their spies into our midst? Will mass orgies ensue? And if so, to what degree? What will happen, in other words, was the penultimate question of the hour. Everyone in this little universe we had created together wanted to know. It was just like a plague.
Then I snapped back to reality and out of the corner of my eye I saw Jessica taking another hit, and realized that it didn't matter. None of this nonsense mattered. Not in the least. The moral of this story is not that smoking pot is wrong, but that it is right. These are the best years of our lives, and the best days of those years, and perhaps the best microseconds or whatever, but by Christ, let me tell you, I was not about to let this opportunity pass me by!
"I love you", I told my soul mate and best friend, "I just wanted to say it."
Then I took another hit; and quite frankly, the rest of the trip is all a blur...
I suppose that's a decent ending...
Booyah!
This is a story I recently wrote for school about an experience I had camping about a year ago...it was one of my first times getting totally wasted.
I would love it if there are any writers in here who could give me advice or feedback on this. When I presented it to the class it wasn't really accepted very well, becuase none of them smoke weed!! :jerkit:
So anyway...I hope you like my story.
Cory Clark
WR 240
Essay Four (Nature Writing)
April 23, 2005
"Shiiiiit."
I grin like an idiot and take another hit.
"This is some fucking good shit....heh heh heh. I haven't ever been this fucking stoned...STONED!! Heh heh heh. Yeah...um...um..." I trail off, eyes glazing over as the last hit sinks fully into my mind. This is not only my third time smoking weed, second time being really stoned, and only time voluntarily camping in the woods, it's my first time to really be alone with Jessica. She and I have decided that we would spend the final days of our time together going camping and smoking weed. I had already spent about a week with her, the first week of the rest of my life, as it were... and now we were going to end it with a bang.
"Yeah..."
Jessica's eyes are pink slits as she slowly opens another can of tuna to be eaten raw. They match her hair quite nicely. I stare at this in puzzlement and wonder as the realization slowly dawns on me...
"Oh my God!", I mumble, "The trees are closing in on us!"
The trees, now two-dimensional like huge slats in some demonic log cabin, are slowly getting closer and closer, seemingly bent on my personal destruction, not to mention devastation. The smell of burning tuna fills my senses and I shudder. Is this what we've been reduced to? Are we all just molecules gathering dust in the perilous wooded glen? Have we all lost our way as small children? Why are the walls closing in, and why does the tuna smell so awful?
"It's done", says Jessica, as she walks over and hands me a sandwich, her gaze darting around, seeking some form of answer to her questions. I tear into the soft white bread and luscious tuna with the ferocity of a feral fox. A fox in socks. Like Doctor Seuss in that one book...you know? The one where he's all fucking squinty?? HA HA HA! He's fucking stoned! His eyes are so squinty and bloodshot... mother fucking chink eyes....BLAH!!!
"So anyway, how are we supposed to get back to the mainland?"
The question is just as perplexing as it is troubling.
"Um...My uncle David will pick us up on Friday."
"Well, love, that makes sense, since he's the one who dropped us off here. Why didn't you just know that by arbitrary assumption? Don't you have gumption or umption or conjunction junction, what's your function? Um...where's my sandwich?"
I stare into my empty hands. Did aliens land in our midst? Did my entrails dissolve? Did my urethra break in half? Did bears savage me, or the land, or both? Or did thieves come in the night and steal my precious cargo...the sandwich of which I speak.
"You ate it."
"I did?"
I am completely dumbfounded. Not that I ate it, but dumbfounded as to what I supposedly ate. Perhaps it's best that I should play along...just humour the girl so she doesn't become suspicious.
"Oh...yeah, I certainly did eat it!"
She gives me a coy smile. Instantly my brain pulses with thoughts of sex. Everything else is gone. Completely. Except for my insatiable lust for tuna, which is growing stronger every moment.
"Come here", I tell her as I pull her into our tent. On our way in I see a bag of cheetos and a marijuana pipe. I take another small hit and pass the pipe to Jessica, who seems annoyed. But why? Why should my one true love be annoyed at me? What is the uncharacteristic anger which threatens to consume and control, desecrate and devour? Hopelessly, I eat cheeto after cheeto, trying desperately to think of why she is so unhappy. She grabs the bag out of my hand and my first instinct is to kill her and hide her body in the woods, but I fortunately do not have the stamina to act on my first impulses. Gravity takes it's toll. As her gaze falls upon me, unfocused and yet unfettered by human social restraints, I am so turned on that I cannot control myself any longer. I crawl on top of her, spilling cheetos everywhere, and start to read the cover of a comic book next to our pillow.
"God damn it all, these funny books of the future sure are keen!"
The purpose of my over-enthusiasm is to distract Jessica from me long enough to really get a good reading in. I simply must read this book to the best of my ability, or God help me, I will surely perish.
Suddenly I am jolted back to reality, and we recommence our sultry dance of death. But hopefully there will be no actual death involved at all. I forget what I'm doing a couple times, finish the bag of cheetos, and look around the tent for what seems like hours, but at long last we are done, huddled together gasping for air, or possibly marijuana smoke, thinking only one unanimous thought...
"Should I make some more tuna?"
I stare at her blankly.
"Should I make more tuna?"
"Yes. Um...fucking yes. I would like that. Also, some more, um...bread. You know, to put the tuna in between. Do you know how to make a sandwich? Do you need my help...my expertise, as it were, in enabling my long suffering friend to make a sandwich or two? Or maybe like seven..." I say all of this to her as we are exiting the tent, walking over to the picnic table, gathering the necessary supplies for a tuna sandwich of unusual size, and then staring blankly at the ingredients, unsure of ourselves and our intentions.
I completely forget what the hell I am talking about. It seems like ages have past since my last rational thought. But then...it hits me.
"I'm not NEARLY high enough", I declare.
"The pipe's in the tent."
So I mosey on over to the tent like Clint Eastwood moseying on over to the gay bar. He does this in order to fuck men. Clint Eastwood wants to fuck men.
That was the last sane thought that passed through my consciousness for many hours. "Clint Eastwood wants to fuck men." The last vestige of hope and clarity in a new world of hurt...a world where pot smokers rule and dogs drool. A world where Jesus would have died for my sins...sins even He, the creator of the Universe, could never hope to fully comprehend. I take a huge hit, repeating my mantra as I slowly and methodically exhale: "Clint Eastwood wants to fuck men."
* * *
The sounds all stop. The echoes begin to fade away. The swirling, mewling ceiling begins to descend, lower and lower, upon us. The flat lifeless trees sway and seem to be reenacting some sort of mourning ritual. The black and white noiseless room is slowly becoming smaller, like a trash compactor. The carnival music dies away. The laughing stops. The smell of marijuana and tuna and sex and marshmallows and blood all blow away on a piercing wind, becoming nothing but a memory or a wisp of forgotten sorrow. The penetrating silence speaks to me. The cool air flows over my naked body, and the boundless confines of space shimmer past like chromium scalpels. The heat of the actual scalpel in my hands shudders into my pale arms with lightning-like intensity and purpose. They say lightning never strikes twice, or something like that, but now it strikes the same place again and again. The lustful flicks of the blade over my eager body seem like a snake's tongue promising me paradise. But soon even the bleeding cuts and tempestuous kisses of true desire seem to fade. The deep look in her eyes...the landmass of my mind. The tunnel to the innermost chambers of the junior chamber of commerce...
* * *
"Brad? ...Um...Hey Jessica... 'Dammit Janet. I'm mad, Brad'... does that sound very familiar to you? Or very familial?"
"No...should it? I mean...should it really? I mean...um..."
"Well, it's just that it's a line from the Rocky Horror Picture Show."
"Oh."
I nervously avert my gaze. I'm obviously coming down off of the dope a bit, but what about the countless instances of circumstances when coming down just a little bit isn't enough, when you need to come down a little bit more drastically...you know...the oft repeated legend of "not being high at all anymore."
"I've never seen that movie. I wanted to though."
"Well, we will then."
She was lying to me!
"We will have to buy it. I mean, I was planning on buying it anyway...I was planning on owning that movie. So we'll just buy it, right? That will work out just fine."
Even as I make the assertion, I'm not so sure.
"Ok", she replies.
"Ok."
Hours pass. Countless unnerving hours. Will the FBI and their countless affiliates send their spies into our midst? Will mass orgies ensue? And if so, to what degree? What will happen, in other words, was the penultimate question of the hour. Everyone in this little universe we had created together wanted to know. It was just like a plague.
Then I snapped back to reality and out of the corner of my eye I saw Jessica taking another hit, and realized that it didn't matter. None of this nonsense mattered. Not in the least. The moral of this story is not that smoking pot is wrong, but that it is right. These are the best years of our lives, and the best days of those years, and perhaps the best microseconds or whatever, but by Christ, let me tell you, I was not about to let this opportunity pass me by!
"I love you", I told my soul mate and best friend, "I just wanted to say it."
Then I took another hit; and quite frankly, the rest of the trip is all a blur...
I suppose that's a decent ending...
Booyah!
