The Bushdoctor, Amsterdam

This coffeeshop has surprisingly good coffee, not that anyone ever comes here for it. I’m stoned. Feeling comfortably dense, heavy, gelatinous. My mind, however, is soaring, tallying wrongs committed against me, flipping through the rolodex of life’s disappointments, beating myself up trying to work out issues that I gave up on years ago. Attempting to solve myself. Cannabis does that to me sometimes, especially the sativas. It’s past midnight, and the Russian kid working the smoke bar told me the place closes in ten minutes. I take one last puff. Some guy with bushy hair and a scuzzy beard is staring at me as I’m writing in my journal. He probably thinks I’m writing about him, which I am now, but I wasn’t before he began acting paranoid, or maybe I’m the one acting paranoid. Stoners.