It was a mistake that one time to go and seek out a bag in the hood. I had been wrestling for quite a long time with the realization that I could either pay attention to you, or smoke myself into oblivion.
When we got home and smoked, you said to me, “It’s decent mid-grade weed.” And I took that as an insult — because I take half of everything everyone says as an insult — in the sense that I had been getting the medical hookup for so long, and it just so happened that I had the hood weed hookup this time.
You went into the other room, indicating you wanted to fuck.
Of course you wanted to fuck. Weed does that.
But I was feeling bitter, so I stayed in the living room and smoked all night until it was gone.
In the morning we went to the diner and had a good time. Except when you got back home and we talked on the phone, you were terribly offended to find out that I had little memory of that breakfast. I tried to say, I never have a good memory. And I’d been smoking all night. You said, “And you don’t share.”
For the longest time I thought you meant that I smoke by myself and not with others. I eventually realized you meant that I hadn’t saved any for you for the next day.
It was a disaster. And I never got a chance to apologize or explain in the proper way.
And this, of course, is just to say that I still think about you constantly. There are super-models in this world. Celebrity actresses. Women so attractive I can’t stand to make eye contact. But you are the one I fantasize about, because you’re the one I want. I don’t want the foreign touch of another woman. I want your touch. I want your mouth. I want your breasts. I want to taste your breath as we kiss. I love you. I love you.
UPDATE: I want you so much more than Patsy Kensit.