Why You Should Never Smoke More Than An Ounce In One Sitting

So I called my uncle/father Butch Hatch and asked him to order me a plaque so I could have something to hang on my wall proclaiming me the worst of the worst at Veterans Cab. Then, to celebrate, I bought a full ounce and decided to throw myself a little smoke party. I really only intended to smoke a quarter and save the rest for later, but one thing led to another and before I knew it I had gone through the whole bag. I didn't feel that high. Really I didn't. I was okay to drive. Or so I thought. I went to a bar on Robinson Street for a few drinks with a friend, and, well, one drink led to another which led to another and....now I know that a full ounce of weed topped off with nine Long Island Iced Teas is a VERY BAD idea.

When I woke up this morning, I was in a parking garage downtown. My hair was sticky, and even though I was still wearing my jeans, my underwear were missing. I went looking for my car, but couldn't find it. I thought I'd parked it at the intersection of Broad Street and Floyd Avenue...or maybe at the intersection of Staples Mill Road and Forest Hill...but whole chunks of my memory were just a blur. So I called a cab home. No, I didn't call Veterans Cab, because I didn't want my co-workers to see me like that. I called Napoleon Cab, a ratty little company that employs several of my former drivers. (Several of them are also my former lovers, but that's a different story for a different day.) The cab fare was $67, and my purse was missing just like my car, so I had to go next door and borrow the money from my neighbor. I hated doing that. My neighbor is a hunk, and I'd been thinking about trying to get him into my bed, so having him see me like that probably worsened my chances.

Getting in the shower to clean myself up, I caught a glimpse of my backside in the bathroom mirror and my jaw hit the floor. Apparently at some point during the preceding wild night, I'd gotten a tattoo on my rear end. It says....oh, this is so embarrassing...it says: "Warning! Biohazard. Do Not Enter." Now I have to find out how much tattoo removals cost. They're probably expensive, so I'll have to steal some more money from the guys at Veterans to pay for it. Oh well. Not the first time I've stolen from them. And it surely won't be the last.