MOTHER FUCKING PINEKONE

I quit smoking weed after one crazy night when I was 19. Basically, I spent several hours toking up with a towering, harmonica-playing homeless man in an abandoned house with no electricity. My djembe-carrying friend and I had met the crazy dude while we were busking on the street. And being hippie stoners, it didn’t seem weird at all for us to follow him back to a creepy bando and spark up. But by 2 or 3 AM, my friend, the djembe player, had abandoned me to drop another one of our friends off. So I was just sitting alone in this decrepit building with my new acquaintance, who resembled a wizard and would have stood around 6’6” if he hadn’t been hunched over with an enormous tree branch walking stick. I was really fucking high by the end of the night. So I’m not exactly sure what happened next. Either Gandalf produced a knife, was talking about producing a knife, or was reminiscing about people he had knifed back when he was in Vietnam… Whatever it was, I was suddenly certain that this veteran was bent on gutting me like a fish and playing catch with my vital organs. Eventually, my friend returned and drove me to his parents’ house, where I slept off my high in one of his mom’s guest rooms. I haven’t picked up a blunt or listened to Phish since. Being a hippie is fucking dangerous.