Today is Thursday, which is very exciting. I usually take Thursdays off from school to hang out, work on writing projects, bum around a little, chill with my dogs, and all sorts of other fun. Needless to say, I like Thursdays. I will be busier than usual this semester, as I am taking an extra class to hurry up and graduate. I usually take classes with a lot of reading, which I enjoy. There is no quick way around actually interacting with the material, so I need to keep all that in mind. I do love reading.

My spare bedroom and living room look like a tobacco barn, so I have a lot of horticultural work lined up. It’s a labor of love.

Holden Caulfield is at the party.

This space has become a raw look at what makes a person’s identity. A part of that is that I make no effort to shy away from my intense use of marijuana. I’m fine with it, and I don’t pay for it. I’m high right now. As Towelie once put it, “I always come up with the best ideas when I’m high.”

That being said, to pretend I am impervious to weed-smoke-fueled mistakes would be me lying to myself. Sometimes I’m lazy. Sometimes I am forgetful. I have been known to zone out during conversations, and I always forget where I put shit. My lovely wife even does impressions of a stereotypical stoner when she catches me wandering around looking perplexed. 

School is something that I have always done roasted. My grades tell me that it has worked these many years. I’ve been able to participate in class more easily, and I even knocked a final presentation out of the park last semester while standing up next to a mountain. Is it a crutch? Maybe. Do I usually do good work? Fuck yeah, I do.

My best writing is a smoky stream of consciousness. Editing a stream of consciousness sucks, by the way. I get bored and annoyed while editing before finally focusing. It’s a whole shitty ritual. I have one class that has only three or four writing assignments for the entire semester. Each one needs to be long and perfect, and I have been making a conscious effort to skip the first two conditions, boredom and annoyance, and focus on focusing.

Occasionally, things don’t go according to plan. Just the other night, I missed multiple message board posts and wrote an assignment that received this feedback:

“Also, I’m not sure what the last section of your discussion is referencing in the context of the discussion question…”

“Sorry, Professor. I was blasted out of my gourd and accidentally got into the Kevin James movie my wife was watching” is not a great excuse, so we march on.

I’ve written about the high academic standards that I set for myself, or used to set for myself. This is the first semester where I am just letting myself off the hook. I’ll be okay with B’s and maybe even a C. My advisor said at this point grades matter less than my recommendations when applying to master’s programs. 

Honestly, letting off the academic gas is needed. For years, I have been trying to prove to nobody in particular that I’m not stupid. My middle-aged, drug-addled brain can run on auxiliary power for a little while. I need the cooldown period.

On the subject of age. I was at a local fair recently with my wife. As we were walking up the hill toward it, there were little kids and teenagers all around us. The energy was infectious. My hometown is massive area-wise; when I was a kid, it was also devoid of people. The fair was one of those times when you got to connect with the kids you went to school with, even when they lived across town. It was a huge deal, and all my homies would be buzzing about smoking weed in the cemetery and hanging out with girls. 

An era worth romanticizing for sure, which I did while my wife and I walked. Eventually the topic circled to getting old. My wife is a fair bit younger than me, though she hates to be reminded of that. I often joke about how I have started rapidly aging and how much of a geezer I have become, but this conversation was different. 

While I was excited for all the kids getting the opportunity to rock out and be young, I also explained to my wife how getting old actually doesn’t suck. That’s right, kids. This isn’t cope, either. I didn’t even feel like my true self until I hit my mid-30s. My mind is sharper than ever, and my curiosity drives me to keep filling my head with knowledge. I am also comfortable enough in my own skin to stand up for myself, which has come with some rigidity in my values. 

Remember when “woke” was like Kyrie Irving opening his third eye and not whatever it became in the early 2020s? Getting old for me has been like that. Burn some sage, read some Zinn, and have a good time.

I’m a golden-rule guy. I bring that Model of Christian Charity energy.

But, yeah. My knees hurt, my eyes are blurry, my beard is gray, and walking up that hill to the fair with my wife gets harder every year, but I will be goddamned if I am not having the most fun of my life.

Do drugs, give hugs,

JTC