“Could it be done?” my friends and I wondered. Could a person blaze at 4:20 — the universal time for weed — for 69 consecutive days? It was a daring proposition of existential math: multiplying my own experience of the drug time by 69 days — 69 of course being the famous sex number. I had to try.

The experiment began innocently enough. I’d done diets, sober Januaries, and other such efforts to establish healthy habits in my life. This experience proved similar, yet backwards in a way. By day 35 — the halfway point of the exercise — I was certainly more lethargic that when I’d began, but largely able to function normally in my life. When I finally blazed at 4:20 on day 69, I walked to a local health food store to purchase detox tea and eucalyptus lozenges in preparation to heal my lungs in the coming weeks. The future looked bright and possible, and I had seen my research through to the end.

Little did I know how severe an end I had seen it through to.

On day 70, I did not wake up at all. I was dead. I am dead. I blazed at 4:20 for 69 straight days and it killed me, and I only have my own foolishness to blame.

I should have known better than to dabble in such dangerous maths, and now I am a ghost. A frightened, regretful ghost. I scream and scream, yet none hear my cries. Would that I could blaze but one more time so the drugs could deaden the pain of having squandered this one life of mine, but when I reach for my bowl or lighter, my fingers pass right through it. I want only to forget seeing the tears of my family as my own corpse was lowered into the ground, but there is no sleep in the afterlife; no escape from horrible memory. Also I never even tried 69-ing in real life even though I joked about it all the time, so I am regretful of that as well.


grave-stone

I used to have a studio apartment. Now I live here.

I see the specters of other dead people around me at all times, some with ghastly wounds and disfigurements. It’s not like there’s a guide to death like Beetlejuice or anything either, so before I got here I had no idea that animals have ghosts too. There are literally billions of rat ghosts and dog ghosts shrieking and howling at all times, and only I can hear them. One time I saw a stegosaurus ghost and that was actually kind of neat, but for the most part the afterlife is an unceasing hell. And it’s all because I played with the drug time and the sex number.

Most torturous of all, my efforts to sate these gnawing, eternal munchies are futile, as any food that passes my lips drops right to the ground beneath me because I have no corporeal form. I tried to have spaghetti and meatballs the other day and it all went plop-plop on the tile beneath me, and my meatball rolled away and got dirty. Maybe I deserve this hell.

I would give anything to undo those 69 days. I would do anything to have spent my 4:20s not blazing, but rather riding my bicycle or volunteering at a community center. It is too late for me though. Don’t make the same mistakes I did. And I implore you, please try actually 69-ing with someone while you are still alive. I wish I had.

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