The thing about duster

As a teenager, I discovered the joy of drugs. At first, drugs were these elusive agents of wonderment available only to those in the know. It took a certain amount of skill and a relatively large amount of money to obtain, at least, for a middle class white kid without a clue and a bad haircut. After my initial introduction I was hooked, not like a junkie who needs it to get by, but I just needed to feel different, alive, from time to time. Of course, marijuana laid the ground work. After the first joint I ever smoked in the basement at an older kid’s mom’s house where I could swear I was melting into the floor, I did what any rational person would, look for as many ways to get as high as possible.

Pot wasn’t always the easiest drug to find for a fifteen year old kid at a private Christian school and certainly wasn’t the cheapest. That’s when I discovered other, much cheaper (and sometimes free) ways to get high. I found that if you take an entire bottle of motion sickness pills or drink an entire bottle cough syrup you’ll trip so hard midgets with Mohawks covered in blood will crawl out of your bed posts and it’ll snow in your room. A bottle of pure peppermint extract will get you so hammered you’ll puke every color of the rainbow.But more importantly, I found a drug for the stoner on the go, a quickie, something that didn’t last long but was a super intense high: Duster. Commonly found in office supply stores, these compressed air canisters are used to clean sensitive computer parts and kill brain cells with the speed and accuracy of a ninja. An awesome twenty seconds of one of the most insanely dizzy head swims you’re likely to experience and, since it does something crazy to your vocal cords, gives you the coolest Darth Vader voice of all time.

Since it wasn’t something unusual to own, it looked completely natural on the top shelf of my closet where it waited for me to finish my home work, open the closet door and indulge in its selfless deprivation. The problem was that my closet was right next to my bedroom door and my bedroom was right next to the living room where my parents would hold up, pondering (I suppose) what the fuck I could possibly be doing in there. Another problem is that when you inhale duster it makes a very distinct sound. Like a balloon rapidly deflating into a metal pipe. All of these things, one would think, you’d consider before buying the ticket for the damn ride, right? Well, not me.

I was of the mind to reward myself one night after a grueling twenty minutes of pretending to do my homework and decided that it was time for a little hit off the old can. So, I went to the closet, opened the door and sucked in as much as I could swallow. And, as you might imagine, the second I put the canister back in the closet and shut the door, my mother bursts in with a very confused look about her. Things were very quiet now. We just looked at each other for what felt like an hour. My mother looked at me with the judgmental eyes only a mom can produce and I looked at my mother with sheer terror, holding my breath so as not to exhale and be really fucked. See, when you inhale it and hold it in you get fucked up, but it’s when you exhale that the spins really send you to the floor. So, I just stood there, trying to keep whatever composure I could.

She said “did you just inhale something?” I dare not speak. I can’t let Barry White out of his cage right now; it’s not like I can pull off the puberty voice change, I already sing bass in the choir. So, I simply shook my head as if to say, “What the fuck are you talking about?” she asked to smell my breath and luckily, duster is odorless so, I opened my mouth and leaned toward her. I was starting to get really dizzy now and it had been over a minute. I don’t think I’ve ever held my breath for more than twenty or thirty seconds before much less a fucking minute. Not sure if she’s satisfied or not, mom looks at me for a few seconds longer before saying “I didn’t catch you this time” and walks out. I closed the door behind her, slowly walked over to my bed (at this point I felt like a dramatic bed fainting was in order) turned around and fell back, finally exhaling on my way down and plummeted into the deepest and most satisfying duster roll of my entire life.

Nubs Across America

Do you ever wish that you were missing a limb? I do sometimes. I mean, think about it. It's the ultimate trump card. Every time some friend starts to cry on your shoulder you can just explain that you would put your arm around them for comfort if, you know, you had one. No matter how hard they think their stuff is, you can feel free to remind them of how difficult it was to have no choice but to learn to write with your left.

Pork sandwich

Life's hard. Everyday, it's just wake up, go to work, and whatever happens in between work and going to sleep just to start it all over again. And then there's all the little stuff. You might have problems with your girlfriend, an illness, money troubles, or an insufferable family life. It's hard for me atleast. But none of it: my weight, my love life, lack of of drive, or general self loathing; none of it compares to the fact that everyday there is something, some little reminder of the fact that I don't know kung-fu.

Something about a forest and.. some trees?

My first attempt at blogging failed. I just spent the better part of an hour writing about how upset i am about something or another just to have the whole thing taken away with just the click of a button. It's all just a big cruel joke.

Anyway, hi. My name is Hunter. Welcome to my blog.