Let me tell you something about anxiety: it doesn’t knock. It kicks in the door, spills bong water on your foot, and asks if you have a minute to talk about consequences.
It started with a dare I made to myself during a particularly vicious weed nap. “Call the White House,” I thought. “Just ring ’em up. Ask what the hell is going on with marijuana reform.” Easy, right? I mean, what could go wrong?
Well, everything. Everything could go wrong.
I submitted a request through The White House website and then my phone rang, my heart turned into a paint shaker. It rang once. Twice. By the third ring I was convinced I’d triggered some kind of Patriot Act sub-clause. Ring four: “Hello?” A human answered. Not a robot. A human. I panicked and asked to speak to “someone who can tell me what the administration’s position is on weed.” That’s a direct quote.
I got transferred. Then transferred again. Eventually, I landed at the State Department, where a weary-sounding rep with the vocal charisma of a DMV printer informed me—very officially and without a single trace of irony—that:
“No action is being considered at this time regarding marijuana policy.”
I was stunned. All that anxiety. All those promises. And we’re still in the purgatory of “no action being considered at this time.” 38 states, the District of Columbia, and 3 territories have medical and/or recreational active on the books.
It felt like I watched a blunt roll itself just to fall into a puddle.
I wanted to scream into the phone. Something poetic. Maybe a 1984 quote. I don’t know… Instead, I hung up and stared into the void of my muted TV screen, seeing my own reflection and the creeping dread of time…
No action. No plan. Just silence and the winds of “politics-as-usual”.
Pass me a doobie, I’ve earned it.
Keep it weird,
“If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stomping on a human face– forever.”
