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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,