Sometimes it snows in April

“Dude, are you psychic or something?”

On the other end of the phone is my friend/drug dealer. I figure I can make this distinction, as he was my friend first. Met him through one of my best friends in the world, who’s a mutual acquaintance. I’d been buying marijuana from him for the longest time before he finally let me know that he handled blow. Needless to say that was a good day.

He was questioning my psychic abilities because even though he told me a few weeks ago that he was out of the coke game for the foreseeable future, I rang him up the other night.

I called under the guise of wanting to know if he knew anybody that might have something. As it turns out, his connection re-upped and he was getting a supply later on that same evening.

“My guy called me like 20 minutes ago. And then you just called. This is fucking weird, bro.”

I always have kind of felt like Sookie Stackhouse in that way. My mother used to say I was “extra sensitive.” She was a wise but extremely troubled woman. She was deep into metaphysics. She filled my young brain with all sorts of profound thoughts, ideas and theories.

So from a young age, I’ve always had this intrinsic idea that anything is possible. And on the rare occasion when I do quiet my mind and allow myself to just be, I’m consistently amazed at the things I’m able to kind of channel from the universe.

I’m always a little clearer after being sick. All of that down time allows my being to slow down long enough that I have an extra little charge when I’m back to health.

It’s all been going into work lately, which is fine. I’ve been on top of all sorts of assignments, and even got publicly commended by my ‘boss’ today, which was all sorts of awesome.

Since I achieved most of this while under the weather, it was the perfect excuse to purchase two grams of blow from my man.

The timing couldn’t have been better. On Tuesday night I had to attend the opening of a “hot” new West Hollywood club. Perhaps if I were younger, dumber and I don’t know, idly richer, I might be able to enjoy these things.

But when it’s just far too many bodies crammed into some space where the DJ is spinning the same abysmal garbage that’s endlessly repeated on Top 40 radio and a cocktail is $19, excuse me for not feeling especially privileged for the opportunity.

Thankfully I had my bullet in my pocket, which allows for discreet snorting. So I just kind of skied my way through it all, which needless to say made things far more bearable.

I'll be taking my little friend to the big rock show tonight. I feel like coke is more appropriate for the Yeah Yeah Yeahs than just taking a joint, you know?