High Ramblings about Chili

I fucking love chili.
But like, chili isn’t something you can get store bought or from a restaurant because it would suck major ass. Unless of course, you went somewhere renowned for its chili.
You know, I  actually can’t think of a place like that.
Holy fuck.
I want to start a chili restaurant. I want all types of chili, from all over the US. Hell, I even want to create designer chili, chili that’s so goddamn different yet tastes so goddamn good. Like maybe, jerk chili, or perhaps chili adobo. Ooh, how about chili curry?
Duuuudes, the possibilities are endless.
You could make chili desserts; like chocolate chili served over like pretzels or some shit.
And what if, bear with me here, it was a smoker friendly place? By that I mean weed, of course, look at the title of the blog lol.
Like what if we had stocks of cannabutter, different strains of weed and what not. And when people ordered their chili, they had the choice to pick a weed in it, similar to picking the wine you want with your food?
Mind blown as fuck.

-high ramblings of a stoner

High Ramblings about Relationships

I don’t think I ever want to be in a relationship, or fall in love or anything like that cause I’m afraid what that will turn me into. I already have a hard enough time not being a piece of shit person and friend, like in a relationship? I’d either be a complete piece of shit or a complete psycho. I don’t know. I just feel like, I don’t know man.
Like I already have a hard enough time maintaining relationships with friends. But like, with a significant other? One of us would go psycho making the other life a living hell for the other.
Plus, honestly, I don’t like people too terribly much. Like, I haven’t had an actual crush on anyone in a while. A few years at least. I just, maybe I’ve had slight infatuations or something, but like dudes, I can’t.

-high ramblings of a stoner

High Ramblings about Sitcoms

I want a sitcom about stoners. Like literally stoners. Not That 70’s Show shit, I want weed to be an integral, if not completely a main part. And I want it to be funny. No drug dealers, unless they are pilot jonesing. I don’t want another drug king-pin, funny, selling pot shit. I want it to be about the everyday adventures of a stoner. U know something people could relate to.
That is all.
Wow, that kind of turned into another post.
Should I put a title?
Well now,
Fuck yeah, title time!

And signature

-high ramblings of a stoner

The Hospital

White. Everything is that pure, sterile color. It’s the kind of white that makes you feel dirty. The kind of white that begs of you to be pure, to be clean, to be faultless and unsullied; yet at the same time relegates you to forever be defective and impure in contrast to its perfection. Everything in the room I am in is that horrendous hue. The seamless walls, the smooth and unbroken floor, the slab of a door, even the chair I am strapped to is that color.

But I know it won’t be for long.

The door begins to jiggle. I gaze up at the harsh, fluorescent light. Will this be the closest thing to sunshine I’ll ever see again?

I don’t look at the Doctor as he enters the room. I hear the steady, calm clapping of his shoes on the white floor. He draws near. I refuse to look at him. I already know his appearance: white scrubs, white apron, white gloves, white surgical mask and cap, and black goggles. I remember staring into those goggles as he began his first surgery. This will be the fifth. I am a seasoned veteran. He has actually told me that he is surprised I have lasted so long. He’s had me the longest.

The Doctor takes my face in his white-gloved hands, he holds it in the position I had initially been keeping it in and straps down my chin and forehead. He then uses some kind of metal device to pin both of my eyes open. I continue to stare at the light. That’s what you have to do. That’s how you survive. I imagine myself floating up into the white light, I imagine myself flying far, far away from here.

Suddenly, the Doctor’s face eclipses the light, my salvation. I see something in his hand; it appears to be an ice cream scooper. He bends over and directs his weapon at my left eye.


Then nothing.

Black. Everything is that distant, desolate color.