Chicago

Maybe there’s something about me, but I think there’s something about me taking a bus to see Jocelyn. No, I know what you’re all thinking, and no, I wasn’t sexually molested. Stina and I were simply accosted in Chicago by a very friendly lady who wanted to tell us things we didn’t need to know and to show us to places we didn’t need to go. Stina eventually gave her a dollar and bought her some cheese fries.
I don’t judge, but I do think it’s notable that there was more pot being smoked in Chicago than I’ve ever seen before, and that includes both Amsterdam and Hempfest. Our driver had it, a man stopped into the bus depot briefly to get out of the wind so he could light his roach, and I’m pretty sure the people I might otherwise have thought were a bit off their rockers were instead just high. They had that hard-to-follow train of thought that just almost seems on the verge of making sense, and then you ask a question and everything seems to fall apart. Also the self-interest of someone who knows they can’t quite grasp what you’re saying, so they might as well talk on the off chance that they’ll understand what they’re saying. Does that make sense? I’m not high.