The Night the Bathroom became the Porcelin Chamber of Death

Anyone who has ever smoked weed more than three times knows that EVERYTHING IS BETTER when you’re high. ESPECIALLY sandwiches. So, as any logical person would do, I smoked and waited. After a while, my inner monologue started peer pressuring me. “I’m already high. This sandwich is going to be amazing. But I wonder how it could be even MORE amazing?” Naturally, I smoked more. The first half of the sandwich was the best sandwich I have ever eaten. The second half sort of fell out of my mouth because I forgot how to chew, generate saliva, and swallow.

If you think conquering a sandwich while you’re stoned is frustrating, try a CRIPPLING FEAR OF EXPLODING. Twenty minutes later I was formulating debris patterns and trying to figure how to make the first few cognitive seconds of the impending explosion as painless as possible. This meant, of course, staying out of the PORCELIN CHAMBER OF DEATH that is/would have been my bathroom. And I had to poop SO BAD.

Eventually I decided to lay down. Since I am also terrified of a) being murdered b) my apartment being haunted c) having a heart attack and d) that a romantic squabble next door will end in my being shot and killed inadvertently, silence was a cruel, fear-mongering mistress.