The smoke hangs heavily in the air, making the room seem out of focus
and surreal in the flickering light of the TV. Your eyes swim around
the room, vaguely registering at least half a dozen other guys in
here, all pretty glazed over and in various states of undress. One of
the guys seems familiar, but your brain is heavy and slow and you
can’t quite place him. Meanwhile, your eyes are drawn back to the TV,
swiveling of their own accord to focus on the flickering image. Given
the haze and the fuzziness of the rest of the room, the TV is
astoundingly clear: Crisp, rich and deep. You feel your eyes widen -
- partially in surprise, partially to drink in more of the image. The
guy on the cartoon is nodding, and you feel your head bob a little in
agreement. He leans forward, nearer to the screen.
Nod ... nod ... you lean forward too, your eyes feel so ... wide ...
and yet only mildly uncomfortable. It's a strange sensation. Like
the opposite of being Chinese. In fact, they feel huge, and square.
You imagine they are assuming the shape of the TV.
"That's ... weeird," you say. Your eyes feeling flickery too,
reflecting the TV, more than just optically.
The cartoon guy is saying, "Hey. It's happening to you, too, right?"
Your eyebrows twitch and twitter, very confused. Is he addressing
you?? "Yeah, you, man. It's cool."
What is ... you blink again, not sure how he knows what you’re
thinking. Your eyes are tempted to look back and forth for some sort
of support.
The guy in the TV screen produces a big fat cartoon dutchie, drags,
then glances around surreptitiously and gestures for you to approach.
You have that sort of passive TV-watching mindset, where ... like if
Tinkerbell were dying, you wouldn't clap your hands, because it's just
a show. Well, you might clap if there were children in the room ...
hm, your mind's wandering, you think. But it’s curious all the same,
how he seems to be checking you out.
The glowing j wanders into your periphery. But he's a "car...toooon,"
you protest.
It bobs, it wiggles, it approaches.
Your head bobs and wiggles too, as if it's tapping at your personal
space... the doob, that is. Its glow is hovering at eye level now,
smoke streaming. Your eyes cross slightly and focus on it... /pass
... pass ... the trick is to pass ... /
Your hand starts to rise -- it's more that you see it, rather than
feel it or will it -- but then you remember you have to let it pass.
Or maybe you have to "... pass ... it ..." you think aloud.
The hand holding it is down ... below ... so far below the glow, so
... detached from the business end.
The smoke is wafting into your face and is almost textural as it moves
over you. You let out a light cough. Until yesterday, you'd never
smoked. You need to move this along. Your hand, low down, reaches
above his, clasping it lightly, and you take the long roach clip
stick, the glow before your eyes moving upward slightly as you remove
it from his limp hand, which remains there as if forgotten.
With great effort of concentration, you transfer it to your left hand,
getting ready to pass it on. The handle is warm and kinda soft, and
the whole thing is strangely cantilevered. You raise your hand to
look more closely at the handle, drawn to inspect the unexpected
texture. Even as you move your hand to the left, the glow remains
before your eyes, like a steadicam on its slow swivel. No matter
which way you move your hand, the various joints and arms of the
armature swing and jerk, bringing the j nearer to your mouth. The more
you try to pass it, the closer looms the smoldering fattie. You have
to resort to moving your mouth away from the j, rather than the other
way around, as the thing's physics are beyond you to manipulate...
your head moves slightly side to side, trying to avoid it.
You realize that the way to pass is ... not to try and pass. This is
... "fucking ... ridiculous..." you say, going a bit glazed as the
thought suffuses your mind and drenches it in paradox. Something must
be fucking with your head. The physics are impossible.
"Fucking Ridiculous" murmurs . . . .someone nearby. Your eyes seek
out the source, but the joint looms, attention split... wait ... are
you ... was that your voice?
So you are left to either pass, in which case you can't pass, or not
try to pass in which case you are still not passing. It gums up your
brain, this situation. You need ... grounding ... some help ... your
eyes break the magnetic zone of the doob.
"Zoone of the doob," comes a stoned sounding voice. /How do they
know?/ you wonder.
...and a soft "heh" chuckle …
...and a light cough.
Maybe if you could pass it more quickly away, or get the next guy to
take it from you… your eyes roam around the room, seeking a plan or
some advice. But these guys all seem pretty zonked. Meanwhile the j
is brushing lightly against your lips, a slow tick.... tock ...
Your eyes swivel to your left. If you can get his attention... your
lips, something about your lips... they feel ... oddly ... heavy and
slow. The tip of the j scratches at your bottom lip, seeking entry.
Your tongue darts between your lips, stimulated by the slight tickly
itch, and flicks the tip. It draws out a tangible, standing stream of
smoke, like pieces of plastic yarn adhered to your tongue.
"Hey..." you say, but it comes out tangled around your tongue as your
eyes seek out the guy to your left, to pass to. It feels like there
are tiny hands gripping your tongue.
The guy over there is sprawled and glazed and seems familiar ... that
same feeling from earlier. "Hey..." you repeat, nudging his knee with
your knee with some sense of urgency. He's grinning happily at the
TV, zonked. You scan his face and realize he kinda looks like you,
but kinda ... rougher. Your neck cracks slightly as your head cocks
in surprise, taking stock.
His head swivels toward you, wobbly and glazed, his gaze oddly,
unsettlingly vacant. He has ... no ... irises? You feel yourself in
danger of falling into those eyes, and yet you chub slightly at the
sight.
"You got this, uhhh..." you try to articulate what you’re thinking.
He grins, and nods.
"Gotta pass," he says, and you nod... exactly. "You just got here,”
he explains. “I'm later." Your head cocks the other way, your eyes
screwing up as you ponder what he's just said... more paradox. "I’m
over there in an hour," he gestures vaguely.
Against your will, your head swivels slowly in the direction of his
vague gesture, noting his hands ... are ... different from yours ...
your eyes follow his arm, hand, and further along to where he’s
pointing, and see a younger guy. Kinda street-punk-looking. He's
propped in the corner, kinda drooling and rubbing his hand around
under his underwear, which is his only clothing. You feel a little
more blood surge into your cock as you watch him. His tongue lolls
out as he concentrates on pleasuring himself. "Wwwwowwwwwww..." your
voice is thick and slow...
"Course it changes as you change," the guy next to you says,
effortlessly but so slow and thick... so much slower and thicker...
and a murmur echoes around the room several times: “pass.”
You tear your eyes away from the guy in the corner, and your hand
automatically reaches out to pass to your left on command. The device
inserts the doob deftly into your mouth. It's a powerful impetus,
that command from all around. "Nmmm..." you protest, but dammit,
moving your hand away only serves to wiggle it a little deeper. It
glows insistent before your eyes, the tip seeming miiiiles away, such
a loooong ... loooong... the smoke begins to ooze out over your
tongue. "Glkkn…" It inhales itself into you (is that what's
happening?) the physical sensation, so ... odd ... backward, liquid
and vapor at once, it is heavy thick and aromatic, like playing back
an exhalation... backward, a perfect reflection of your own exhalation
seconds later; it had to happen because it couldn't be undone without
being done first.
Your eyes seem to swell in their sockets, so heavy and big.
"Ohhhh," you hear them all moan around you ... as they have exactly
the same thing alter, each to his own degree. "That'ssss newwww..."
"Dude, that was," the guy on your left draws a deep breath. "Fucked
uhhp."
You turn s s s s s l l l l l o o o o o o w w w w w w l l l l l l y
y y y yy y, and follow the doob with your eyes as it wiggles away,
tick ... swoooosh ... tock -- to face yourself. "Iiiiyou should
stop," you say to yourself, as a reminder to your future self, like
jettisoning an escape pod in hopes someone will find it later. You
realize you are now to the left of where you thought, and you are
looking at this guy, who's sitting where you were ... just ... now.
Your hand comes to rest softly in his lap.
The weed takes hold, and your head tips ... slowly ... back ...
against the head rest of the couch... staring at the ceiling / wall
corner ahead. You feel yourself sinking downward and swelling upward,
expanding and dissipating. "Mmmmnnnnn," you moan in a whisper...
Shit ... but if he takes a hit ... and he's you ... you ponder this as
you continue to stare at the wall...
You hear the guy to your left saying, "Fucking ridiculous."
"Fucking ridiculous," you echo, grinning, remembering...
Wait ... the TV ... different from different angles...
You see he has the roach clip now, and is maneuvering unsuccessfully.
Wait, no, he needs to not ... he really ... "Need to pass," you say
aloud... but ... fuck. If he passes to the next guy ... then you'll
be that much further gone when you take the hit, which means ...
There is a sinking feeling as you realize no matter where or how or
when he passes (or doesn’t) it won't matter. You're all you. Which,
coincidentally is the name of the show now flickering away its title
before you. "You're all you!” it announces brightly.
What's worse is ... you kinda wish you had it to smoke right now.
This does not bode well.
You notice the “You’re All You!” titles just fading away, and get
sucked into the TV, and nod. You figured that out. And we're all
stoned. You figured that out, too. You realize that a hit has been
taken, because you are aware of another shift in your position and the
feeling of a scruffy goatee on your chin. Briefly your mind wanders
to what it'd be like if two of you made out ... it'd be so hot once
... and twice ... knowing ... you blink and shake off the image.
"Oh ... fuck dude, doon’t..." you call to yourself, vaguely...
You also know a hit has been taken because the cloud floats by the
screen... someone nearby.
"Pot." says the TV.
You ponder whether this a single loop that repeats, or is somehow
cyclical, or spiral ... where do you end up, at the end ... is there
an end? Maybe you can get out where you came in . . . ? You should
... just ... not smoke from here on in. Then all the future yous ...
only the one newcomer will be --
The TV has other ideas, though. Now that you are nearer to it, you
have become aware of the soundtrack of the show. It’s a strange,
pulsating music that is overtly erotic in some sense you never knew
existed. You start zonking out listening to it ... your head
bobbing...
[]
Like it's groping you. Invading you. You want it to have you...
just give it you ...
"Fucking Ridiculous,” Past You is saying.
"Fucking Ridiculous" comes the echo from somewhere diagonally opposite
you.
You know you should be stopping it, but it's all a dream anyway,
right? Your shirt has at some point been removed, and your hand
strays to play with the chunky metal hoop in your nip, jangling your
nipple nerves in wonderful new ways. You feel your arousal swell,
merging with the throbbing music. You just wish you had the fucking
joint ... or something!
Now in a new corner, you survey the room. The original You has just
come in, of course. The blobs of colored light from the lava lamps
give the whole place a surreal, disjointed feel.
"Hey," you say, weakly.
But you realize that you are not interested in stopping him now; his
toke will ultimately affect you, and you are totally into that idea.
Instead, you chuckle softly and enjoy the show. What you wouldn’t
give for a j of your own . . . "Take a hit," you whisper,
subliminally...
You realize several of these . . . versions have their own supply, and
you’re actually a bit put out that they have them and you ... mmm ...
don’t … but they're yummy to watch. The guy over there has a big
phallic hookah. He fellates the hose ardently, smoke cumming out.
Then there's that one, with a similar, larger hookah, but he seems to
have grown an appendage which serves as his private hose, the end of
which licks and laps at the central chamber … with a mix of envy and
satisfaction that seems paradoxical, you think it’s all fine … you’ll
get there sometime. After all, You’re All You.