I suppose that it makes perfect sense that some of us grow up to enjoy being stoned. We experience it early on. Spinning until you are dizzy, holding your breath until you pass out or huffing Super Elastic Bubble Plastic in your sandbox. This wonderful toy had acetates of several flavors and levels of toxicity in it. Smelled wonderfulllllll. I would sit out back all alone and blow bubbles with it and huff them right back up. I felt so awesome when I did that. All floaty and seeing wonderful colors in the air around me and just tripping the fuck out. Just me and Toby. The best St. Bernard who ever lived. I was with him in the sandbox the time he wanted to kill a meter reader. Mom was on the back porch doing laundry and heard this voice saying verrrrry soft, "Little boy...little boy...please go get your mother...PLEASE GO GET YOUR MOTHER". Then she heard me say, "Oh don't worry mister, he's just a puppy". She ran out back and there I was playing with my dope while Toby had the poor motherfucker pinned flush against the back of the house shaking and crying. Toby's monstrous drooling maw pushed into the small of the guy's back ready to bite in, grab spine and wrench it the fuck out for even DARING to come so close to me. Heeheeehee. Mom defused the situation and got the guy out of there. Toby stuck with me while I huffed my toy chemicals and floated back to 5 year old Trip Town. I graduated to weed 7 years later. Not sure when I stopped huffing the bubble plastic though.
My youngest sister and I with Toby. 1970. He would protect and watch over me while I would binge on bubbles.
