Cannabis Fun Club in Russia

Have you ever delved into the meaning of the phrase "live for fun"? It is not necessary to be in an altered state all the time, you can live the life of others - play sports, drink vodka, go to the pool, hang out with a girl, well, there are plenty of possibilities, but there is another type of everyday life - live for fun.

The goal of the day is to make you feel good. Some people feel good from vodka. Someone from heroin. Someone from marijuana. For some, it comes from studying and good grades. Comments on this text can be sent to home_mail@email.com I would be interested to hear your comments on this essay.

----- New day ------

At eight in the morning, my alarm clock, made by our slant-eyed brothers, starts beeping obnoxiously, "beep-beep-beep! beep-beep-beep!" I rub my eyes with difficulty. Fuck, it's already morning! And I had such a dream! A vivid one! With a deep meaning, over which you, not yet fully awake, think in passing. Oh, there's no one home anymore. You hang around in your underwear and a T-shirt in the kitchen, yawning incessantly and thinking, "Why the hell did I wake up? I should have gone to the third period, anyway, the lessons are probably useless." Having poured myself some tea and dug out of the fridge some kind of cake that had miraculously survived from yesterday’s pork, I drag it into my room.

I like my room. I feel quite cozy in it. A large fold-out sofa takes up a significant part of it. I don’t feel cramped in it, and I like to sleep on it. It’s already had its share of troubles and its bottom is cracked in some places :) The wall on the side of the sofa behind its headboard is insulated with a carpet. A small lamp is attached to the side. For reading on this very sofa. All the furniture is arranged compactly, the shelves and the wardrobe fit well into the interior. But there’s nothing unusual. There are two armchairs and my desk in the room. My computer is on it. It’s not very fancy, but it has everything I need. At night, it also works as a post office. When I leave for school, the answering machine with AON automatically turns on, where I offer in a nasal voice to leave me a message: "... and I'll call you back as soon as I can", which often becomes the subject of jokes from my friends. There is a lot of music on my hard drive. It plays in the background all the time. Even at night. But at night it is quieter. It is worth pressing the red button to turn on my amplifier, as the room is filled with the sounds of music. My chair is surrounded by three S-90 speakers. When I sit in it, the music is centered on me and I feel all its stereo effects. I usually sit in it completely exhausted. But more on that later.

So, it's morning. I'm sitting in a chair, drinking hot sweet tea and eating a cake. My mood is improving. I go online, pick up my mail, watch the online news. Damn, it's time to go, I'm already awake. I turn off the amplifier so that the music doesn't play in vain without me :) - the computer will go into sleep mode itself, and will wake up only if someone calls me on the answering machine. I put on the player, turn up the music, pull my hat almost over my eyes, raise the collar of my sheepskin coat, put on gloves and leave the house. So-o-o-o. Today I have some extra plywood - so I'm going on the minibus. Cool. 30 minutes - and I'm at my native college. It's a wonderful thing - to study at the Higher School of Economics. I'll just say that I really like it there. At the entrance I meet a couple of acquaintances. The same "students" as I am.

- It's okay to smoke, well, shall we go and gain knowledge?

- Hy, okay, let's go.

...

- So-o-o. The lessons are kind of useless.

- Yes, no problem.

- What are we going to do?

- Let's go to V.

- Let's go to.

About forty minutes later we were already treated with the tablet taken from V.

It's fragrant, but the butor is something else. It was a shame they threw out the plywood. We swore a hundred times not to go to V. - a useless plan. But we go anyway. The butor is not a butor, but it has cured us thoroughly (this term "to cure" is used mainly by junkies, but it is more than suitable for us too).

We walk the streets, take a walk, fortunately it’s not cold. We buy all sorts of jokes. For example, that we are on another planet - and that all people are aliens. Or have you ever noticed that the cars driving around the city look very much like animals? Here comes the Vespa-a-ant sucker. The yellow Ikarus is barely dragging along, smoking profusely from toxic diesel exhaust. He looks like a caterpillar. He has a very stupid face - the round headlights really emphasize this resemblance to some defenseless, resigned animal. Nimble cars overtake him. And here is the Gazelle. She looks like a hare. He runs so fast. Like a hare jumps. Jump-jump. Yes, cars are very similar to animals. And yet, each car is somewhat similar to its owner. Here, a fashionable, upturned and tinted blue nine. Music can be heard from it. Boom boom. Boom boom. The driver's window opens, he throws out a cigarette butt while standing at a traffic light, and lazily looks around before closing his window. I know this car - its owner lives in my house. Fashionable pass-san. I don’t like people like that, for some reason. They freeze me out with their appearance. I associate their appearance with “No problems! Everything in a bun!” These are people who do nothing and, at the same time, everything. It's fashionable now. It’s fashionable to drive around the city at night (cool, by the way). It's fashionable to fuck cheap whores standing on the road. It’s fashionable to sniff gerdos - “Yesterday, Pass-san and I p-i-k-ar-oche killed-i-i-li, p-i-kin!” It's fashionable to constantly stir up something. Uncheck. Mooders. Assholes. Well, fuck them.

Walking around the city, we kill a few hours. Oh, it's time to take a shit, and we haven't eaten! Time to go home. The stomach is already growling discontentedly, demanding food. Lots of food! I arrive home. I change clothes, and quickly put the food on the stove to warm up. In the meantime, I listen to the answering machine, call if necessary, on business. Voila! The soup is ready! Warmed up!

Eating is a sacred thing. When no one is around, I give free rein to my entire culture - I loudly slurp, slurp, bite fiercely, swallow without hiding these wonderful sounds. What the fuck culture! And now, typing these lines, I am eating a very tasty pickled tomato, and a piece of boiled lard with bread. Awesome - that's one word that describes my feelings now. I love crawling around in the refrigerator at night.

Eating like this, I can talk on the phone, read my email, surf the Internet... So, after a delicious lunch - wipe your hands on your neighbor. In the role of the neighbor - a towel. Two o'clock in the afternoon. You can sleep. I turn on something relaxing (there is a special playlist). I turn off the phone and fall on my favorite sofa. Thoughts gradually subside, I fall asleep, and... immediately find myself in another world. In the world of dreams. After marijuana, I always have a deep sleep, and vivid, with rich plots, dreams. I always wait for them with impatience. Dreams are an officially permitted drug. And, moreover, the best of all that I know. If I could, I would sleep all day long! You can do anything in your sleep. These are not cheap taran hallucinations, or stupid cannabis junk.. This is something completely different! And even nightmares, which everyone occasionally has, are good because you always wake up on time. But something always gets in the way. I wake up from an unbearable desire to pee.

Mmmmmmmmm-m-mm.. With relief! I sit down at the table. Scratching my turnip. Fuck, I don't want to eat. Hey, what time is it, I wonder?

Wow, it's already evening. I call the guys. They have the same goal today as me - to dedicate the evening to squandering national wealth and worsening the crime situation in city N. - that is, smoking marijuana.

Nobody is late for the switch. Everyone is walking with a quick step, focused, along the path known to everyone - to the house where we will now leave 60 rubles, and in return we will receive two small packages of paper from some school notebook. In these packages lies the meaning of life. There are many meanings of life, as well as Truths. They contain magic fuel, we will soon pour it into the rocket and it will transfer us again to another planet, which has already become native to us. The profiteer. We are glad to see him. Why? I thought about it. He is a guide to another world. This is good. But he profits from someone else's (and ours!) grief. This duality irritates me, but I will think about it next time, since A. already has everything in his pocket, and it turns out that we are already moving away from the familiar entrance.

We are standing on the second floor of some standard five-story building. There are "commas" on the walls. Examples of obscene words. In any entrance there is at least one "comma" and the word "loser". Definitely. We bought this out long ago. I am now convinced of this once again.

- Get the jar.

- Here she is.

- Burned a hole?

- Hey, V.! Do you have any cigarettes?

- Come on, fuck - waste cigarettes, give me the Belomor!

- Come on. And we'll have a chat at the same time.

...

- Is there a problem here?

- Yes.

- It’s kind of thin.

- No, it's normal.

- Yeah, maybe.. Who the hell knows. Butor is fine.

We burn a hole in a 1.5-liter lemonade bottle with a cigarette, while A. rolls his first joint. This joint is enough to get 5 people really high. It's normal. But we'll smoke this half-pack in 3. That's the bullshit. I'll need to rest for a couple of days, get rid of the dose. But A. distracts me from these thoughts:

- Why are you clicking your face? Go blow up the can.

I take it. Here it is, a beauty. Fuel is poured into its tanks. Its nozzles will soon be sprayed with smoke, which we will pour into our lungs. The lid with the thimble looks elegant and even beautiful. A. brings the lighter to the thimble and begins to light its contents. I begin to forcefully draw air through the hole in the bottle.

- Look how he fired it up! He blew it up really well.

I pass the can further around the circle and move away from the boys a little, catching the first sensations. I blow out smoke. My face seems to swell a little.

- Phew... Cool.

There are simply no more words.

It's my turn again. I take a strong hit. How it tears at my lungs! I pass the can on. My thoughts are absent. I withdraw into myself until the next can.

- That's it. There's nothing more here.

- Yeees. And it’s brightened up!

- Cool.

Sometimes, depending on the weed, there is a different dialogue:

- Fuck, the second can, and it's already time to fuck my dick!

- No, I'm not into it!

- Well, grab one jar!

- No, I'm with you!

- Yeah, fuck, A. - look at his face, it's so broken, he doesn't get it (we laugh together).

I don't smoke cigarettes. But after weed I like their smoke. It becomes specifically sweet. That's how I recognize the first steps of a stoner, even when it's not yet felt by the body. I really like the smell of smoke in this state, but I don't like smoking them. I tried several times and didn't like it. And in general, I think that smoking cigarettes is a waste of time. But for the company I stand and watch them smoke. They catch their first hits. But, fuck, there's movement in the entrance again. An elderly woman, looking at us suspiciously, passes by downstairs. Oh, and someone else is coming up. Horror. It's so tense. A bustle. I don't give a shit about anything right now, but it's obvious. In this state, you try to get away from any conflict, you don't want to argue, you don't want anyone to touch you at all. We decide to leave the entrance. We seal up, put on gloves. Someone takes the can with them. It will still come in handy - after all, we still have almost one and a half joints.

Leaving the entrance is always equivalent to finding ourselves on another planet. The sky is always equally dark. The buildings of the planet's inhabitants are illuminated. Their vehicles drive. The inhabitants walk. You are the explorers of this new planet. We have again moved to their dimension. Think about it - this is really so. We are not on planet Earth. We are in another dimension. We flew over on a rocket with a nuclear warhead. The explorers are armed. Sometimes I am armed with a folder. Sometimes with a bottle. A. is armed with a lighter. B. is defenseless. We are the security.

- Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Hahahahaha.

- Dschschschsch-dschschschsch. Zhzhzhzhzhzhzh.

- Aaaaaaaah, he attacked you!! Ha-ha-ha!

- Eh-eh-eh, I'll shoot you now!

- Ha-ha-ha.

We are all swollen. This is the diagnosis. We are heading towards my friend's house. We often conduct rocket launch tests there. The local grannies have been fucking with our brains for a long time now. And here is the house. The boys go up to the third floor and wait for me when I arrive. And in the meantime, I go to visit.

- Hi, S!

- Great!

It's a bit of a mess, but that's even cool. I like it here. I used to drink vodka here quite often. Or beer. If beer was still cool, then I can't stand vodka and sam now. I've stopped appreciating vodka junkie altogether. It's worthless. It's stupid. This is a typical vodka joke - to be mean, to fight, to have sentimental bazaars, for which you sometimes feel ashamed in the morning. But it's a traditional form of unwinding, damn it. Sometimes you have to drink vodka. It's disgusting. I'm sorry that most people don't know what crap it is. That there are much better ways to unwind. Sports. Sex. Hanging around pears.. :) S. is already about thirty, he has a wife and a little daughter. He rents this apartment. The conversation turns to boring old women.

- By the way, S. Do you remember when I went to the sky then - they had kicked the boys out of the entrance, and when I left you they were standing there and discussing how bad we were?

- Hy..

- Ha-ha, it was fucking funny.

- ?

- I almost leave the entrance, but I hear them talking about you, like music is playing at night, you're drinking, people who come to you smoke "all sorts of drugs" - you need to file a report with the police. I stop in front of the door, listen to them, then turn around and say to one of them: "Sorry, I'm basically an outsider here, but I've known this family for a long time. The police aren't needed. I'm giving you this sincere advice. From the heart." Grannies: "Why?!" Me, opening the door to the street: "They'll fuck you in the ass, that'll be the end of it." I go out into the street and after me flies "Fool! What a fool!"

- Ha-ha-ha. They're fucking me too. (lights up a cigarette). They're already annoying.

- I see. Oh well, I'm jumping already, it's time. I'll come in as we agreed. But you must find out everything, okay, okay?

- Hey, come on. See you.

In the entryway we blow up a can without any interference. We do it several times. It starts to kill little by little. Now I really don't give a shit about anything. A. remembers the joke that our life revolves around pleasure. Take me for example, I come home exhausted. I make tea, take some cakes and candies. I sit down at the computer. Music plays. And music, guys, on hash, is such a fucking awesome thing, I tell you. And if in my normal state I like rave and its derivatives - that is, in principle, a thumper, like hardcore or club house, then when I'm dead I can't listen to this music at all - I stupidly stick it in. But Mylen Farmer, Agatha Christie, Mumiy Troll, gothic (but without electric guitars!) - so that only tunes, like Dead Can Dance, Enigma, (now, typing these lines and listening to Chemical Bros. - Got Glint? - awesome theme, try listening to the end!) Billy Idol is another dude, he also has a lot of goodies. And in general, drap and music are inseparable things. The world is different. You are the same. With minor shifts, perhaps.. By the way, be sure to listen to "Dim Atmosphere" by Die Verbannen Kinder Evas, the album Come Heavy Sleep, while on hash. You just need stronger acoustics. Or, at the very least, awesome headphones.

So, I got distracted, I turn on music at home, call the Internet, fortunately it is completely free for me, drink tea, eat delicious cakes, enjoy. Everything is so awesome. Of course, there is no euphoria - not the right drug, but this state is the best for me. Because I feel awesome. This is where the meaning of the phrase "I'm high" is hidden. Everything seems simple - comfort, music, food, communication, but the matter is also, probably, in me. By the way, have you noticed this thing? In a normal state, as well as blue - you always willingly bother with girls - you communicate with pleasure, get to know each other, in general you consider them as the opposite sex. And when you're stoned, you don't give a f-ck about them. You just don't give a f-ck. It's not that everything is atrophied. No, everything is cool. You just don't consider them, for some reason, as an object of harassment. At best, you consider a familiar girl as a friend. For you, everyone at that moment is just a friend. Ganja is a strange thing.

We are at my place. It is eight or nine in the evening. I am on the Internet. We are listening to new music - fortunately there is a free CD rental nearby. We are chatting. Someone will always remind us how we live (like every day these blissful events), we remember similar acquaintances. We often remember our classmate - M. He is a unique guy in his own way. He has one peculiarity - he is always under the influence. Always. I have never seen the pupils of his eyes larger than little dots. Two little dots. Emotions compressed into two dots. His whole life in two dots. It seems that he is really always under the influence.

At school, on vacation, day and night. He lives for the high. He has a fucking awesome CD player with him. He always listens to it and he really doesn't give a shit. His appearance reflects this. An outsider would look at him and say, "He doesn't GIVE A FUCK." His player also has a spaceport function. M. sniffs heroin from it through a flyer from "21st Century" cigarettes. He can do this anywhere - in the toilet at the institute, at his desk, behind the wheel, at home, in the entryway. He doesn't give a fuck. He's also a big joker. A strong joker. Sometimes he takes off his headphones. Studies the situation, and comes up with some fucking awesome joke. On whomever and on whatever. He doesn't give a damn about any of us or anything around him. But he's not a simple guy at all. He'll always do what he wants, although he seems to do what we agreed on, but it turns out his way. A unique guy. He enjoys everything. By the way, he also noticed that at home I do everything for fun. He really likes this system too. Everyone likes it. (WinAmp+MP3+amplifier+speakers). I'm promoting technology to the masses.

That's right. A strong system. Someday it will be in every home.

Sitting at my place, we notice that it's already ten o'clock. Time for the boys to go home. We say goodbye until tomorrow. I stay. I read the echo conferences. It's already letting up. I want to sleep. I go to the bathroom. I wash my face. I go to the room. I put on a CD to be picked up at night - I wake up in the morning - the disc is already in MP3 - with song titles and other crap - hello CDDB system! I sit for another half hour, turn on quieter music. Sleep. Time to sleep. Closing your eyes, you don't think long about the past day. It was not lived in vain. For yourself.

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