About Poetry, Sex, and Marihuana

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Wait. That’s not the poem I wanted to start with. Maybe “There is a place where the sidewalk ends”? Or I could go with “Pretty women wonder where my secret lies”? No, wait. I have the perfect way to open this!

“Two roads diverged in a yellow woods.” Yes, that’s the perfect poem to start this off. I’d go on, but you’re not here to read Robert Frost’s poetry. You’re here to find out who I am, what I do, and whether or not I’m stoned. Trust me, I am, which is also why you’re not getting the entire poem. I can’t remember it.

Okay, the real truth is I stayed up way too late to actually remember all the poetry I know. But you didn’t come here for that. You came here to figure out who the heck I am.

Who Am I?

I’m Captain Cannabis, and I’m here for three things. Poetry, sex, and smoking weed. Some people have told me that my goals in life are ridiculous, but let’s be honest. It’s not like any of the normal “American Dream” stuff is actually worthwhile. What am I going to do, get a regular nine to five job? Allow my soul to get crushed in the daily drudgery?

Okay, I admit it. That sounds kind of pretentious. The truth is that I’m trying to find myself of late. I had a job for six years selling children’s toys at a huge mall. While my boss was fine, I had to work stupidly long hours because it wasn’t a normal store but a kiosk. The mall doesn’t enforce normal employment rules on the kiosks (most people working them are here illegally and working so much overtime it would make your head spin).

I finally broke down after six years due to a handful of mental illnesses that suddenly kicked in. That isn’t self-diagnosed. I waited almost a year to get properly diagnosed, and another month to get a psychiatrist who actually could prescribe me medication. But now that I’m on a steady diet of mood stabilizers, antidepressants, and ADHD medication (lamotrigine, bupropion, and methylphenidate in case you’re wondering) I’m doing quite a bit better.

It also helped that my medical professionals demanded I stop working the job I was at and do something that keeps my nerves steady. PTSD (the diagnosis said I was on the fence of that, so they’re trying anti-anxiety treatments first) is a heck of a drug.

So now I’m a writer. Now I go to poetry jams and spoken word performances. Also, a lot of swinger parties. But you never want to mix sex and weed, at least not in open forums like that. The stoned sex is for the privacy of the bedroom!

Why I Give Limited Dating Tips

I also want to make this absolutely clear; I am not a red-piller. The idea that somehow a woman owes me sex is deplorable to me. The idea of trying to use “tricks” to get them into bed is insulting.

I am a poet. I shouldn’t need “tricks” to find a bed partner. I should be witty enough, kind enough, friendly enough, and attractive enough that people want to sleep with me all on their own. Yes, of course, I approach people. Yes, I ask them. But there’s a huge difference between striking up a conversation, finding common ground, and allowing something to build and trying to trick a person into bed.

I also refuse to ask someone to become intoxicated before I ask them. You’ll see a lot of people trying to buy a person a drink, usually a heavily alcoholic “girly-drink,” in an attempt to get them to “loosen up.” I like weed, and I like drinking, but I also like consent. There’s a beauty and enjoyment in a one-night stand, but there’s just as much beauty and pleasure in building a long-term sexual relationship with someone.

It doesn’t have to be a relationship where we build a life of some kind together. I don’t want a life partner, and I’m up front about it. Once again, I am a poet, and I should not need to lie to a person to get their affections. I can do it on nothing but my wit alone.

And sometimes they’re impressed by the plants I grow.

My Growing Habits

I don’t want to give away all my gardening tips, especially if you’re currently somewhere that doesn’t allow legal recreational marijuana. But I do love my basement garden. I’ve got the lights set up, and it’s really relaxing heading down there and tending the plants as I come up with new poetry.

The green of the plants is like the green of Mother Earth, of Gaia the Earth spirit, fresh and new and full of life. The soil is perfectly pH balanced to allow my plants to grow strong and healthy. The fertilizers I use, the exact watering times, it’s poetry all its own. There’s a relaxing, meditative feel to my gardening, and it’s incredibly helpful for my PTSD and anxiety.

Granted, it’s difficult to keep to schedule with my super terrible ADHD, but a few different alarms and a very clear procedure has helped me deal with that. It’s even encouraging, at least to me. Every time I remember to keep the schedule tending my plants is a battle I’ve won against my own mental illness.

My mind is a battlefield, constantly attacking me with harmful thoughts. Sometimes I use gardening to ignore it. Sometimes I entertain it with sex. I smoke weed to shut it up. And occasionally, I let those thoughts flow onto paper or computer screen, becoming the stories of my inner struggles that I share with all of you.

We all have our struggles, our triumphs, and tribulations. Mine aren’t any more or less impressive than anyone else’s struggles. They’re simply different. So join me as I enjoy my weed, enjoy my bed partners, and most importantly, enjoy sharing my disordered thoughts with you.