I spent the better part of my morning being thankful that I didn’t die last night. I also continued trying to figure out what the hell happened. I still wasn’t sure if my bad trip was a result of too much alcohol mixed with my Percocet, or if Phillip’s dispensary weed simply knocked me into another dimension.

Once I had finished playing Nancy Drew, I did some writing in bed and then hopped downstairs around noon. I watched the remainder of Star Wars: Episode VI – Return of the Jedi with my brunch, and after a couple of hours on the couch, I was already bored.

This recovery crap is wearing thin. I can’t wait until these damn dressings are taken off my foot. I feel disgusting. I can’t shower, I haven’t shaved, and I haven’t had any form of exercise since Thursday morning. I try, but even something as basic as a slow walk is an immense struggle. After being on my foot for an extended amount of time, it really starts to throb. I’m also not interested in doing anything that’s going to keep me out of commission longer than necessary.

So, what did I do today? A logical person would have made a to-do list of low impact tasks that needed to be completed. Meanwhile, I looked out the window, saw it was another gorgeous day, and decided that it would be a great idea to spend more time in the sun. And, hey, why not smoke some weed so I could relax and pass out by the pool? Perfect idea, right? No. No, no, no. Fucking no. So fucking wrong! This afternoon’s blazing also answered the mystery of last night’s disaster. After smoking the same amount of weed out of the same bong, I was fucked.

The whole experience was almost like déjà vu. I went into Phillip’s bathroom, took what I needed, smoked a bowl from my bong, and just when I was about to go downstairs, I heard Mom, Dad, and Phillip having lunch in the kitchen. I panicked. I turned around and, quite literally, crawled across the hallway back to my bedroom like a giant baby. It’s not that I am completely incapable of human interaction while stoned. I just prefer not to come into contact with my parents while I am on another fucking planet.

This weed was out of control. I started shaking again. I knew that the only solution was going to be hopping into bed and sleeping off the peak of my high. The trip was exactly what had happened last night. I thought I was paralyzed at times. It sounds very dramatic, but I had never experienced that type of debilitating high with weed before. Mom came to check on me, as she does every ten minutes. Phillip also came to say goodbye before he went back downtown. I could barely function during both visits. Even when I woke up a couple of hours later and was using my phone in bed, I noticed my hand shaking.

Eventually, I made it outside, had some water, and calmed down. I still had that hazy post-high feeling, though. The grog lasted throughout the entire night, too. I felt like absolute garbage. I also thought it was a great idea to bake a ridiculous dessert involving graham crackers, brownies, icing, and about a pound of butter. A true stoner move. I took one bite, and wanted to throw out the entire pan. Add into the mix that Mom invited some of her friends over to watch the Toronto Raptors basketball game, and I was not in a good mood. I went up to my room around 8 p.m., and stayed there for the rest of the night.

I feel like a slug. Even worse, I am infinitely disappointed in myself for giving into weed so easily. I know getting high is such a counterproductive activity, but something comes over me every time I get the idea in my head. I lose all self-control. Somehow, I am always able to convince myself that smoking is not only the best thing for me to do, but that it’s the only thing for me to do.

I don’t want to smoke anymore. I really, really don’t. I know how much better I feel when I avoid weed, so why can’t I just cut it out like I want to? I felt more depressed today than I had in a long time. I don’t want to blame it all on the weed, though. At the end of the day, blazing is an act which stems from my own poor decision making. Nobody forces me to smoke. I do it because I am unhappy. I’m bored. This foot situation definitely isn’t helping, either. My time at Casa Z is quickly coming to an end. I am so fucking over this. I need to be back downtown.

I also need to figure out what the hell I’m going to do for a job. The Toronto Film Group is ridiculous. And fucking rude. I can’t believe they shafted me the way they did. I think what will end up happening – after I get a proper job description and information on potential benefits – is that I will formally accept the offer from The Clubhouse. Once I establish myself there, I’ll then try to weasel my way into a position that I’m more interested in.

I think The Clubhouse will be a good place for me to start. I need money. I also wanted to travel, though. That’s where the Toronto Film Group contract would have been so perfect. I would have had the time and the income to go on an adventure. But, maybe I’ll just do weekend trips. Or, perhaps save up my money and take a bigger vacation down the road. We’ll see.

I’m not smoking anymore. It’s over. I mean it this time. Lately, I’ve been thinking about how I would feel if I was dating someone who did this. When it comes to getting high, my reasoning to myself is always, “Well, I’m single. I’m allowed to act this way.” It’s not to say that a relationship is the epitome of success, but maybe this is why I am single. Would I want to date someone who acted like this? Fuck, no!

I was daydreaming by the pool today. I imagined that I had told RX I would give up smoking forever to be with him. And I did. I don’t know why RX was the focal point of that vision, but it was what it was. I want to be able to say that I would date myself. Right now, I can’t say that I would.

Goodnight xo