A culmination of events.

(This is a true story, sadly enough. I felt the way the story unfolded was fascinating, and felt that sharing it would help with the steady sinking feeling. Feel free to tell me what a dumbass I was. God knows, I've told myself plenty of times)

Today, two years of solid grass smoking swung around and hit me. It was a culmination of events, a climax, and it was, to say the least, the worst day of my young life.

To fully comprehend the series of events that would eventually lead to this fateful day, we must first turn the clock back to June 17th, 2005.

Parents gone on an overnight trip. Bong on the table. Fifteen sack of weed in my pocket. Phone on the table. Car in the driveway. A stoners dream. The day started of amazingly well, and I decided to pick up two good friends of mine, who we shall call George and Wally. Now, when I arrived at Georges house (where Wally was staying at the moment) I was delighted to discover he had just acquired a new piece; a beautiful glass slide bong. Naturally, we decide to smoke a few bowls, and by the time we staggered out to the car, I was, suffice to say, and totally intoxicated. We returned to my home, where we socialized for a short time, and then I prepared to take George and Wally back home. However, as we buckled our seatbelts, we we're interrupted by a dire threat; my neighbor, Herbert, a retired preacher, we quickly exited the car, but we made two large mistakes: one, the window on the front seat passenger side of the car was rolled done, and two, George had actually left his sunglasses in the front seat of my car.

So in order for George and Wally to return home at a reasonable time, they would need an alternate form of transportation. We quickly stumbled upon the solution, which would ultimately be my demise. My parents beautiful mountain bikes sparkled where they hung suspended in the garage, and George and Wally had a way home.

The rest of the night was quite fun, but ended with a grueling seven mile round trek through the countryside at four in the morning (which is another story for another time.) My parents arrived home later, and at first it seemed as though they would never suspect a thing. And then, my father (who you will come to loathe by the end of this story, I fear) requested that we drive to the local hardware store to buy some necessary, well, hardware. And lo and behold, in the car, I immediately discover, is a pair of unidentified sunglasses, belonging to no one in my family. Luckily, I managed to escape persecution with a convincing story about how George and I had moved the car to play basketball.

But in the garage, the wall where the bicycles had once hung lay vacant, an ominous forshadowing of things to come.

Now, I will not deny that the hardships I have endured (and will continue enduring) are of my making. I could have quite easily told my parents I lent the bikes to my friends, and returned the glasses the next day. If only fate had been so kind.

Now, skip forward a week. Saturday, June 25, 2005, 7:30 P.M. My father had just returned from a business trip the night before, and was in a very bad mood. He was participating as a volunteer in a local road race. His job: To ride his bike in front of the pack of runners, leading down the correct road.

The fire, which had been quietly smoldering for a week, suddenly erupted in an instant. I was in big trouble, he said, and I needed to get those bikes back. Now. Of course, as long as I was going to get the bikes, I might as well give him his sunglasses. The problem was, the sunglasses were nowhere to be found. All around the house we searched until there was only one place left: My Room.

Maybe it was the brief look of panic that flashed over my face when he leaned toward my dresser, or maybe he already knew. Either way, I left my room for one reason or another as a nervous wreck. When I returned, I was greeted with an image that would haunt my nightmares to come. My father stood before an open drawer, the clothes pushed aside. In his hands, he cradled my pale, green bong.
The End

(Yes, I am aware I sound like a 14 year old blogger. It's just how I write...larger than life)

 

Yeah, now that I read it again, I realize I exaggerated my predicament to an almost ludicrous degree. Still, considering the fact that my dad works on people who have died from drug overdoses, his discovery does not bode well for my immediate future.

Firing squad? I doubt it. But I will have to quit weed, which is always irritating, especially in the middle of summer vacation. Also, my nice piece was destroyed in a painfully brutal fashion. Finally, all of my old friends are under extreme scrutiny, and I am being barred from any future contact with them for the time being.

Please understand that I am not trying to foist some pathetic, self-indulgent teenage sob story on a forum full of stoners, many who have been arrested and jailed more than once in their life. I find it's more suitable as a cautionary tale, a reminder to evaluate each event in are life so that they will not terminate in some fatal error.