Mathew had three friends. When he had been high last night, he had spent three hours trying to understand the meaning of a friend, and had finally settled on connectedness, after admitting to himself that he had overthought and become partially emotional. He had passed out thinking happy thoughts about the opposite sex, and wondered why he didn’t have more connections on that front. He put the reason down to a lack of communication during his formative school years. He had been an introverted child, and unfortunately a slew of circumstances at school, ensured that he would always remain so.
The one refuge he found from all the bullies, naysayers and the scum, was sports and music. It had saved him, enabling him to divert his bountiful creative energies on something constructive, rather than try and hit back at scum. He had been so sweet that, he had never called anyone a motherfucker or any other variations of abuses in all his 12 years at school. He was sure of it because, if he had done so, he would have remembered it.
Mathew stared at his laptop, trying to make sense of all the numbers spread out before him on the excel sheet. He had become adept at spotting slight iterations and patterns through rapid visuals, as if reading a page of a novel extremely fast, but making sense of everything and alert to the slightest variation and cue. His smartphone lay silent on his desk’s corner. He was surprised at the time, he had just spent three hours staring at numbers, without anything to show for it. He stopped for a break, and reminded himself mentally to start using the analytical tools on excel to work on several visualizations. That would sort out the problem.
He was working on viewership data for one of the most popular sports leagues in the country, hoping to come up with insights to sell sponsorships and raise money for his team. He wished he were high while he worked on this, but quickly brushed aside the thought. He intended to detox for a month, and rid his body of all intoxications – cigarettes, marijuana and beer. He had only ever indulged in these three, but dreamt about sex and cocaine once in a while. The dreams would be funny, where he would be on all fours, snorting cocaine from a woman’s vagina.
He loved the one particular dream he had had last month where he had taken his girlfriend to a beach, where the sand wasn’t sand, but cocaine. A cocaine beach. The hazy coke induced sex lying on cocaine and intermingling with the smooth waves, which emitted crooning sounds, was enough for both of them to roll their eyes, and transcend the boundaries of physical reality and enter the realm of the universe itself, where their consciousness filled with the lust of cocaine would float for eternity, haunting the citizens of earth and other lively dwellings if any, with all things cocaine – clouds made of cocaine, which would rain cocaine, beaches, trees and even the smallest microorganism would feed itself with the white molecules.
Marijuana Maharaj 