20 Times I Got Distracted This Month
If the past three years of chaos have demonstrated anything, it’s that there is never a good, appropriate, or convenient time for anything anymore. So, here goes nothing.
First of all, happy International Women’s Day. This started as a gender equality labor rights movement at the turn of the 20th century and is now a globally recognized holiday commemorating the ongoing fight for equity, while addressing the socioeconomic, cultural and political achievements of women. This includes the cannabis industry, where a substantial number of pioneering women are carving out their spaces within yet another male-dominated industry. For International Women’s Day, I am committing to make continuous efforts in this newsletter to celebrate these women throughout the year beyond one day or month of recognition.
I started writing this newsletter a few weeks ago, freshly replanted from my first vacation in three years in Mexico City* to the back of an at-capacity complimentary shuttle bus, one Herve edible and a few puffs of a joint deep, en route to the legendary King Spa & Sauna situated in the outskirts of Paramus, New Jersey, ready to have layers of skin painfully scrubbed raw and tender by a woman wearing a uniform of black lace underwear and a mask in service to the virtue of beauty; not S&M. *More on that soon.
Dipping out to join a dozen strangers at the day spa for an afternoon schvitz is among my guiltiest pleasures and frequently recommended activities**—another thing I have not done in over three years, but seemed like a good way to ring in the eve of my solar return.
(**If you plan to follow my lead, I recommend toting a discreet edible or vape pen, as I learned the hard way that dry herb vaporizers like PAX, G-Pen or the DaVinci IQ2 will absolutely and undeniably hot box your locker, pluming stale aromatics reminiscent of your high school boyfriend’s basement into a room that no one paying good money wants to be around, and immediately ruining any mystique from a clandestine attempt to hide your consumption in the first place—a truly amateurish move).
Fully committed to living a stress-free week, I decided to get out of dodge as a dark cloud descended onto New York City: the return of New York Fashion Week, a time when we—as a society—were held captive across all platforms by the relentless spectacle known as the Scenes From A Manic-Depressive Divorce, starring Kimye and an entanglement of Super Bowl proportions, from Julia Fox’s LES “iconic” stoned Uncaht Jams drivel to Instagram micro-spats with Azealia Banks about mushroom gummies—all co-sponsored by the fashion industry and HBO/Netflix—as my mailbox exploded with weed samples, recaps of you-had-to-be-there parties no one cared about, and desperate S.O.S. messages from brand writers trying to escape the horror of it all, just in time for everyone to jet back to Los Angeles and eye roll the whole thing. Touché.
Just as the universe offered a glimmer of cautious optimism in the form of a supremely balmy 65-degree day in February and promise of a COVID-19 endemic status for the springtime ahead, Russia decided to go fuck up Ukraine, royally fucking up its own economy and everyone else’s in the process—universally denounced by anyone with a brain and emotional compass, commonly ignored by 90% of brands and celebrities, and praised by our former president, who is presently billing as the resident headliner at Mar-A-Lago and not in a gulag somewhere—just as the state of Texas has decided to wage war on trans people and their families, because abortion is already in the can, so why not?
New York, fully entrenched in a historic “vibe shift,” is finally pulling off our chin diapers to expose our maskne-addled faces to direct air and sunlight for the first time in three years so—just like that!—no one* is wearing masks anymore (*except in the following places: the MTA, grocery stores, 50% of restaurants and cultural institutions, medical services and nursing homes, wherever seems relevant to the situation, I guess).
Plus, Euphoria had its season finale! Oh, and my Wordle score this past week included a 2/6 win, so I guess I’m a genius. Did I catch all the headlines?
The saving grace was discovering Tom Ford weed on the legacy market, presumably because it’s Gucci—just like all the other knock offs on Canal Street—resoundingly turned down by discerning cannasseurs who reject bootleg designer drugs in favor of dispensary grade and home grown goods, which is fair considering the uptick in fentanyl-laced grass that should theoretically be less of a problem within the constructs a future legal landscape. I took T. Ford for a spin in the form of a stoned afternoon run along the Hudson Parkway catwalk, taking stock of everyone’s anxiety runs. It was very pleasant.
And there you have it. That was the start of Pisces season, which will soon be on its way. That’s not even counting the 20 times I got distracted.
Despite this seemingly Debbie Downer digest, present circumstances are a marked improvement since 2020. Bizarrely, this is the most optimistic and positive I’ve felt in a long time. I have felt a sense of much-needed connectivity emerging with the return of in-person events.
Among them: after two years, I am delighted to return to live readings of my book about the Hudson Valley and Catskills—a place near and dear to my heart, which will soon be a hotbed for cannatourism and sustainable agritourism like its neighbors, the Berkshires, driven by an intrepid community of artists.
Last week I tagged along with The Good Life and their all-star sponsors Burton, Fat Tire, Hudson Whiskey, Matchbook Distilling and Buddies Botanicals for a Get Down at Glen Falls House in the Catskills to snowboard for the very first time at Hunter Mountain (all the while having my paws held by Olympic boarders Danny Davis and pro-boarder Brock Crouch as I inched down the bunny hill, falling over every few feet).
Among the highlights from Glen Falls: the incredible vegetable-heavy menu from Chef/partner Joey Ellentario at Trotwood; the complimentary schvitz at space egg sauna sitting atop a frozen Glen Falls waterfall; ample room to bust a move on the dance floor at their Tavern to traveling DJs like Quantic, Skratch Bastid, Angel + Dren, Fly Hendrix, and Willy Soul of the Funky Seshwa; the much-needed reiki massage apres ski; and the delicious honey-lavender fromage blanc from Nettle Meadows Farm, Home + Hearth candle from Catskills Candle Studio, getting compliments on my custom Pat’s Pants, and BEST TRAIL MIX EVER from Brooklyn’s Frühling that I picked up before hitting the road.
No one likes “you had to be there” posts, which is why I made it incredibly easy for you to plan your own DIY upstate adventure with custom itineraries in my book, “Easy Weekend Getaways in the Hudson Valley & Getaways.”
The Chronicles: How’d She Do It?
Occasionally I forget I do this for a living, so with discussions about the future cannabis landscape, I often get asked how I made a career in cannabis as a writer.
First, it should be noted that cannabis makes up a very small percentage of my paying work, mostly by choice. The short answer is that I saw a pretty large opportunity to carve out my own niche within the work I was already doing—even though I still incur the stigmas amid a sea of beautiful wares, edibles, and experiences hitting the market within a flourishing multi-billion dollar industry that lured me in the first place.
Recently, I was asked to speak on a panel to fellow journalists and authors not about journalism and book writing, but rather marketing writing—the more comfortable and stable line of work for those over the age of 35 who have accepted that chasing random freelance checks writing about whatever you want is not a particularly sustainable long-term career move for anyone with ambitions of home ownership, raising a family or having some savings for emergencies—along with the knowledge that there will always be some hungry fresh grad with a trust fund willing to work for free or below market rate position enthusiastically with three times the energy.
Blame it on an overly saturated market, the evolution of digital and social media, or the ravages of time, but doing this type of work requires having a certain level of passion with very low expectations for financial reward—including the thankless work of holding this or any industry accountable.
Again, mainstream media was not my primary beat. Even though I trained in hard news reporting, communications law, and spent several years learning the ins and outs of the $659 billion national restaurant industry—a sector that experienced a $240 billion loss due to pandemic-related costs—I was among a very small niche of experienced trade writers and editors with a knack for developing custom content worth reading. I had already made peace with finding a sustainable career within the journalism industry, which was just as unwelcoming and financially challenging in 2009 as it is today. As a result, I also escaped a tremendous amount of petty grievances from fellow writers who speak broadly about “the media” as if they are not complicit or trying to be part of it.
No one gave a shit about trade writers, which was great because it allowed me to work behind the scenes. As a small group, we stuck together without reason to compete or tear each other down. More so, it opened the doors to an incredible number of unique and bizarre opportunities, like testing out fire fighting equipment at Magirus in Ulm, Germany; visiting a fully sustainable chicken farm outside Turin, Italy; traveling with the National Pork Board on several occasions to Puerto Rico and life-changing conferences at the Culinary Institute of America in Napa—opportunities I certainly never had in mainstream media.
As a food writer, I found my niche predominantly covering business and trade after earning my chops during the “why don’t we make that a listicle” era of internet reporting. Chicago’s iconic publishing industry became a wasteland, leaving me with little choice between finding a different soul sucking job or uprooting myself to pursue my passion for writing within a substantially more lucrative and competitive market—among the common reasons many uproot themselves to become New York City transplants until making it or giving up.
Throughout my career, I maintained a local brunch blog, served as a longtime contributor to Fodor’s Travel guides, worked as a director of marketing for a small hospitality consulting firm, took stints overseeing experiential marketing campaigns, helped launch a digital lifestyle publication for NBC, and landed in a few agencies where I worked as a managing editor on custom publications for Fortune 500 companies before going into strategy consulting, corporate communications, freelance projects, and writing my book.
As a lifelong cannabis user who watched rise of American craft beer as a homebrewer and writer, the evolution of New World wines and heritage ciders, and saw plenty of connections between plants, processes and flavor profiles, I didn’t understand why I had to travel across the country to get weed bath salts and premium joints. It just seemed logical this would integrate like any other craft business.
Inspired by others’ hard work and contributions, I decided to step up. I met really interesting people with incredible stories along the way—many still waiting to be written about—have had really cool opportunities to learn from experts from all walks of life, fold in some of my favorite people from the world of hospitality, and feel happy that I’ve introduced a number of curious people to the plant and accessories.
Still, my own relationship with it is very private, often misunderstood and still highly stigmatized. For example, no other food journalists want to talk shop about it unless they are being given a story to write about it—which sometimes pisses me off because it’s usually the same five brands since many lifestyle journalists just don’t dig enough. I started being perceived exclusively as a cannabis journalist, which felt reductive for my 15 years of experience in food, beverage and hospitality.
Working in cannabis definitely made me feel pigeonholed, which was exacerbated by the pandemic wiping out most of my work. I watched as colleagues I respected over the years drop out, or the quality of their work diminish. Most of the content being produced is very of-the-moment and market-driven, lacking a certain poeticism I appreciate.
In some ways, I think it makes sense to give the story to someone who is new to edibles because it’s more accessible and relatable to novices. Medical users and heavy hitters will always form their own opinion because they’re loyalists. At the same time, many publications are worried about liability issues or simply using cannabis as a sponcon section like Chronogram, Hudson Valley’s alt weekly. I don’t see any problem with the uptick in sponcon, but I do think it could be done better and allocating some of the profits towards authentic journalism so that people have some clarity on the variety of ongoing financial complications between states rights and the federal landscape if they plan to do business in this industry beyond the weak sales pitch of, “Hey, have you heard of wake ‘n bake? Try our latest strain over at your local dispensary.”
To me, destigmation and education efforts would benefit from more human interest pieces inspiring people to think differently, that require time to craft and highlight these peoples’ passions. The Bong Appetit cookbook was a revolutionary achievement with high hopes for paving new careers for chefs. I was humbled that Tracey Medeiros included me in her cookbook, even though my contribution was a historical note about the fumbles of trying to source, dose, and experiment with shatter rather than a straightforward recipe.
I felt it was important to document this work because most of this information only existed on back-end weed websites and word-of-mouth. To give creative license to a chef making an infused gianduja croissant that ties back into the current status of Quebec’s poorly covered cannabis scene is both useful and engaging. An Italian trifle dreamed up by a pastry chef using weed to help with his aching joints helps others rethink what medical means. Using lavender-lemon bars to celebrate Chicago’s foray into legalization is the kind of work I wanted to do because it’s about shaping the future of culture.
Being able to discuss the infinite possibilities of terpenes and flavor profiles felt like speaking in a love language. Most people don’t think about the nuances behind what they smell and taste, they just lump it into “good” and “bad.” Two of our most important senses we use every day, and most people are completely ignorant about how to use them. This is why we need experienced and discerning people to curate information and content.
But, it’s a lot of work to do something like that—including the requisite work to address social inequity and rectifying years of injustice. And when a noble cause is involved, unsurprisingly, the rates to do this incredibly involved and thankless work are not great. Which is why I have to beg you every week to consider a paid subscription to support this work.
Longtime cannabis writer Sharon Letts broke her ankle last year in Mexico, for example, and after a decade covering the cannabis industry while living on poverty wages within the industry known for slinging around the phrase “compassionate care,” somehow she couldn’t reach her paltry $6,000 GoFundMe goal. Where’s the community of this multi-billion dollar industry? It literally gives me chills thinking about the fact that random potato salad on Kickstarter made $55,000 and yet no one wanted to help this veteran journalist out with a minor medical bill.
Additionally, this is a very expensive beat. You can’t write off your cannabis-related expenses on federal taxes, and getting rid of the swag can prove to be a complicated exercise, unlike food and travel. An unused infusion device worth a couple hundred, for example, can’t be sold on sites like Craigslist, Facebook Marketplace, or Mercari without getting flagged. Giveaways require the added cost of mailing, and not many of my friends want my used dab devices. For this reason, I also prefer to amp up independent ceramic and glass artists, because these are the things I proudly put on my coffee table—not another shitty plastic grinder or Arizona ice tea stash can.
Most people reach out privately to ask questions in the same way they might watch porn, but don’t want anyone to know. I falsely assumed this was going to make a more immediate impact in hospitality, which will require tremendous educational opportunities for staff and consumers, as well as spur innovation. I still think it’s happening, just not for a long time—not even tapping into the loaded conversation known as the history of the west coast.
Still, as I read one, two, three articles ripping on the barren landscape of cannabis media holding the multi-billion dollar industry accountable, I couldn’t help but wonder why the cannabis industry somehow feels like they’re exempt from the same struggles affecting every other media outlet for the past decade or so. It’s like hearing someone complain about a lack of opportunities to become a newspaper’s food critic, even though Yelp, Google’s acquisition of Zagat, and algorithmic user-generated/advertising-heavy content commodification of Eater and the like each drove their respective nails into that coffin more than a decade ago. Yet, people do it all the time.
It should also be noted that when I worked in mainstream media, my colleagues in the New York office never complained about our paltry salaries and non-existent budgets as they spent additional hours being work horses to drive up the quality of their portfolios because they all came from wealthy homes and landed gracefully at other outlets. They all work in marketing writing now, just like I do.
Certainly, if the negative perception against this multi-billion dollar industry didn’t exist, media outlets should be welcoming the cannabis industry with open arms to funnel their profits into advertising dollars—but that’s just not the world we live in. Maybe because of all of the aforementioned observations, and then some.
So, that’s how I became a master of marketing writing: to pay my bills and be less of a scourge on my loved ones. I am not particularly passionate about it, but I am skilled at it and use it to pay for the writing I enjoy—which I do less of now, aside from this newsletter.
Marketing writing has been part of my life since my first internship at a shitty lifestyle digital outlet, kept me stable when I was first earning my bylines, and provided a safety net to return to after I was dropped from NBC without qualifying for unemployment after two years of working 60-hour weeks before they placed restrictions on full-time independent contractors.
Marketing writing was how I earned my first awards as an editor and served as the basis for most of my commissioned lifestyle journalism as I tried to establish relationships and earn trust. By the time I earned my James Beard nomination, I was so disaffected from writing for everyone else, that I didn’t even appreciate it. It was the same thing with my book. I couldn’t see myself in any of my work, which gave me a great deal of depression that very few people will feel sorry for your struggles. You spend so long thinking about how to make others happy that you stop thinking about yourself. Which I guess is how this newsletter started: I wanted carte blanche to do whatever without having to ask permission and see where it would go. I didn’t want to follow a formula, I wanted to break it. Marketing writing just provides the financial backing, and paid subscriptions provide the encouragement to keep doing it. So, thank you for being here.
Cannabis began as a passion project side hustle simply because it seemed like the next frontier. I mostly saw opportunity for creative and entrepreneurial necessity within F&B innovation and education to address a broad cross-section of demographics—including myself, a user who doesn’t neatly fit. Additionally, the industry benefitted from the much-needed creative touch of women breathing life into a new sense of inclusive community and enterprise, from the aforentioned Bong Appetit cookbook and elegant glassware to bath bombs and state-of-the-art infusion devices. These are the things I like about cannabis: the farms, the feeling, the sensory experience—and, at times, yes, the community, in all its forms.
Still, the majority of cannabis writers are noticeably male or newly formed “content councils” with thought leadership from publicists and CEOs who leverage journalists as ghostwriters, which means the beat is very much financial and political rather than emotional and technical. That’s not even factoring in the people who lean towards psychedelics and the overlapping evolution within the pharmaceutical/mental health space. There’s opportunity there, and certainly community exists, for some. I like highlighting the people who don’t neatly fit, what can I say?
A few months back, I spoke in front of a class at Baruch College about my work in the fast-growing cannabis industry and asked: where do you get your information from? Do you read? The entire class said Instagram, a platform that does not support journalists financially or otherwise except to compete for everyone’s incredibly short attention spans and shadow ban cannabis content and sex workers—which I suppose is a generational side-effect of growing up with a robust internet after the age of magazines that always gave you something to look forward to, as well as the generous illusion of time to read it all.
I started to wonder what advice I actually had to give these kids about my journey as a writer, and what that might mean when the purpose of the class was learning how to jumpstart a career working in luxury marketing, aside from “Try to be a little ethical, please?” As someone who has covered the lifestyle beat for over 15 years, the lines are often blurred when your beat is essentially curated product marketing—a career that makes far more money than journalism.
I do think it is possible to be selective and discerning with your projects, create quality storytelling for clients. I don’t see any point in trying to maintain some facade like many writers, given that many of my heroes got their start doing the same thing. Amy Tan, for example, worked as a business writer for IBM before becoming a novelist.
Most writers I know have day jobs, and the ones who still have their highly coveted beats frequently complain—which blows my mind because they got exactly what they wanted. They often ask me how I’m making money, somehow shocked they’re not, while maintaining this sanctimonious attitude that they’re simply temporarily inconvenienced from becoming the next Christine Amanpour, despite the fact it was fairly obvious when I started over 15 years ago that everyone I worked with had a rich husband or family money, then ungratefully treat my line of work like some well-padded consolation prize they deserve.
During the first phase of the pandemic, I reached out to my old journalism mentor because I was trying to figure out what to do with myself. Before he retired, the school had merged their marketing and journalism program into some catch-all media program. I wasn’t on the wrong path, it was just one that didn’t exist when I started. But neither was cannabis, and here we are.
My advice to anyone who wants to do cannabis writing is just do it. There’s still room to have fun with this, even amid all the inevitable bullshit, and to try to do it better than anyone else. We need more people to keep weed weird and space to be their authentic selves. And if you can’t do it yourself, continue celebrating and uplifting those who are doing the work in spite of these challenges.
D.A.R.E. Movie of the Week: Citizen Ruth!
Are you concerned with recent media glamorization of marijuana and ketamine that your kids will be huffing paint thinner faster than you can say “community college?” Then, have the audacity to get pregnant on top of it? Consider having them watch Citizen Ruth, a 1996 indie classic starring the legendary Laura Dern, canonized this month on Criterion. (Criterion isn’t paying me as an advertiser, by the way. Just a fan).
“An irresponsible, drug-addicted, recently impregnated woman finds herself in the middle of an abortion debate when both parties attempt to sway her to their respective sides.”—IMDB
“Provocative!” —USA Today
New York’s State of Weed
New York’s cannabis industry is pummeling ahead with the Marihuana Regulation & Taxation Act (MRTA), as we are finally witnessing change in motion through the return of highly organized in-person community events, such as NYC cannabis networking group On The Revel, who teamed up with media outlets Mary and Weed Maps for a pretty packed agenda about the future of social equity businesses in New York City and beyond—which you can watch here.
The consensus among legacy operators I spoke with is that On The Revel events are among the most beneficial and informative, attended by attorneys, bureaucrats, local community members, OG growers and dealers, medical patients, and the cannacurious alike—which basically includes everyone from hippies to hip hop moguls, firemen, educators, budding businesses, invested VCs, and me, someone who just showed up.
Speakers included Domingo Estevez, Chair of the Public Safety Committee - Community Board 12 (Harlem); Mar Fitzgerald, Chair, Equity, Race & Justice - Community Board 2 (Manhattan); Carlina Rivera, NY City Council Member - District 2 (Manhattan); Moyo Agyei Alexander, Firefighter, FDNY; Christopher Adorno and JT Woehler, Co-Founders, Mary; B., COO, Buddy's Bodega; Damian Fagon, Board Member, NYCGPA; Ngiste Abebe, VP of Public Policy, Columbia Car; Vikiana Reyes, Director, Medger Evers College, cannabis education task force; and a cameo from New York Hip Hip Legend, advocate and entrepreneur, Styles P. Overall, a very solid line-up with an impressive production value.
If you look at the situation with a half-full glass mentality, becoming a licensed cannabis operator in the state of New York—and more specifically in New York City—should be a pretty standardized process that involves connecting with an attorney, meeting a variety of legal requirements, developing a business plan, and approaching it from the same perspective that one does when applying for a liquor license. This includes ensuring that your business is bringing something to the neighborhood that isn’t going to piss off your neighbors, and help with community development, from creating a safe and reliable space for medical users to a destination-worthy tourist attraction.
Naturally, you will be grilled, and if you do not come correct, you will be denied and out of a significant amount of money you just ponied up to get your foot in the door. Pretty reasonable if you overlook the inconvenient fact that people are still incarcerated for low-level marijuana offenses and ostensibly pissed off about that.
Among the questions left unanswered: How do historically illicit businesses invest money from their illegitimate enterprises into a legitimate operation without capturing the attention of the IRS and FBI? Will cryptocurrency be accepted as legal tender? How does the cannabis industry, which will take a 40% cut in taxes for community reinvestment, remodel itself to be present and responsible industries that can uphold little league teams when these companies are still being shadowbanned on social media because Mike’s Big A$$ Nugz doesn’t quite the same ring as a pharmaceutical company serving children with cancer? Can Uptown and Brooklyn ever get along? Will anyone ever take Staten Island weed seriously? What, if any guarantees, does anyone have that this is not going to turn into the monumental mess known as the state of California?
I don’t have all the answers, but definitely something on many minds right now…
Afterwards, we went to an after party at a unnamed restaurant in Tribeca where they had a weed witch running a dab bar with a packed attendance of smokers of every kind in a club-like setting that frequently runs as a ticketed brunch operating through one legal loophole or another until these things become more commonplace. If the city is making money off of something and tourists are happy, you can expect these things to flourish.
One of the things I appreciated most about coffeeshop culture in Amsterdam is the variety. I still haven’t found a place that feels like the kind of environment I’d like to chill every day in the U.S., but hope the loosening of restrictions will eventually create opportunities to expand this vision so you can curl up with a joint, coffee and a book.
5 Choice Weed Picks:
Get inspired for spring with these accessories for your dope life.
G-Pen: The G-Pen Elite II has arrived, marking Grenco Science’s 10-year anniversary making space age technology for weed smokers. There are a lot of bells and whistles on this dry herb vape, which is a pricier investment than the G-Pen Roam, suited for concentrates. That said, you can’t be the precision control, and for discerning tokers who prefer a clean fire-free hit, this is a good investment for your on-the-go dry-herb vape.
Ouid x Miwak Junior Pipe: Devastated would be an understatement to describe how I felt when I smashed my gorgeous Miwak Junior Sierra Papa Charlie featured in the article I wrote for GQ. It’s so light and classy that I felt like a real Bozo being such a klutz. Fortunately, Canadian female-owned brand Ouid reached out with a lovely care package featuring their herbal smoke blend for micro-dosing, cute cone funnel, Ouid x Goldleaf cannabis journal, and this gorgeous limited edition collaboration pipe with Miwak Junior featuring a stunning cobalt blue bowl.
Herve Le Mirage Edibles: Aside from the truly obnoxiously challenging child-proof packaging, I really appreciated these adorable fancy Pez dispensers featuring 5mg hard candies in flavors like peppermint, sour apple, sour peach, and sour cherry. They’re vegan, gluten-free with no added sugar and sublingual for fast onset, so no can complain about anything except the aforementioned packaging and the limited distribution.
Debbie Carlos’ Knot Pipe: Chicago ceramic artist Debbie Carlos makes some of the most unique pipes worth proudly displaying on your coffee table and this is no exception. It’s hard not to be enamored with this classy minimalist hand-knotted pipe featuring white glaze on brown speckled stoneware and a generously-sized bowl.
High Society Weed Witch Nameplate: I wish I could take credit for this one, but I can’t. Please give it up for Portland’s High Society Collection, who created this glorious handmade necklace in their studio—and to the incredible weed witch publicist Zoe Wilder who tipped me off about this beautiful statement piece I now own.
20 Times I Got Distracted This Month
Among the reasons this newsletter is delayed: a comprehensive list of times I became distracted and unable to finish what I started.
I sat down to write, but I had to go to the bathroom.
I sat down to write, but my 95-year-old grandma called me and informed me that she has hemorrhoids, which sounds excruciating. Instantly had a mortality crisis and worried that none of my friends will follow through on our 20-something-year-old pact to die out in the same retirement home together like the Golden Girls because shows like And Just Like That have demonstrated that you can be miserable for another 30-something years post-menopause without having to be locked away from society.
I sat down to write, but then I got high.
I went to a coffee shop to write, but the music was so good I kept Shazaaming every other minute.
I sat down to write, but saw that the original 1978 version of Agatha Christie’s Death on the Nile starring Mia Farrow, Maggie Smith, Angela Lansbury, and Jane Birkin was playing on Criterion.
5a. I had to rewatch the movie after falling into a Google k-hole about the current drama sinking the Death on the Nile reboot that everyone completely forgot about, where I also learned that Christie was entrenched a mysterious disappearance drama in 1926.
I sat down to write a piece about responsible cannabis usage, but then I got high.
I started to make dinner, but received notice of a sample sale I had to check out. Then reasoned with myself: “No, Carly. You don’t need another pair of sweatpants, even if you still rationalize every expenditure as being nice to yourself as an ‘act of resistance.’”
Tried getting lost within the depths of my own psyche a la Prudence Farrow, but didn’t have the Beatles around to document my race to enlightenment, so I just got high instead and took a trip down memory lane that I documented in the form of occult-induced psychosis scribbles across 12 notebooks.
Went to one of the underground smoking clubs every New York Post article keeps talking about; didn’t notice they are also being issued Cease and Desist letters now. Realized there wasn’t any food, but didn’t have the heart to try to find any in Tribeca, so I just went home and went to sleep.
Sat down to write, but got distracted by three Il Makiage Instagram ads telling me they’ve found my perfect shade while also trying to upsell me a self-tanner, which mostly left me confused about whether I should buy a foundation that matches my current or aspirational complexion, or if this was just a ruse to get me to buy two different foundations I don’t need.
Went to restart Murder on the Orient Express, but got distracted writing about distractions, which is what I am supposed to be focused on, even though I am high. Prepared myself for the very likely possibility that it’s racist and hasn’t aged well, which definitely checks on both. Realized I needed to make a snack, but, again, got distracted writing about distraction, because I am high.
Meant to make more lighters for The Weed Witch collection, but spooned with my bed pillow.
Sat down to write, but then I got high.
Contemplated if I will ever actually finish my second book, but decided it was a better use of time to feel sorry myself and watch microblading before/after videos on Instagram.
Committed to doing a face mask, but not the seven out of 13 steps I was told are essential so that I never age a day in my life again over 35. This was because I was distracted by the bane of my existence: dirty dishes.
Really committed to sitting down to write this time, but thought, “Maybe I should smoke this joint” and started editing myself for the 5 millionth time and eating a mediocre Ben & Jerry’s out of the pint by the spoonful. Because I got high.
Planned to catch my favorite and only Twitch DJ ever—Chicago’s very own VON VDR spinning legendary house music—but decided that was one of the rare Fridays I was going to actually do Shabbat. So, I guess I was distracted by my lack of distraction tools. His next streamcast is Friday, March 4, by the way. And you’re totally allowed to be high for it.
Meant to write back the countless people I swiped right on Hinge and the five other dating apps I sometimes use, but realized my tongue-in-cheek call to action for “creative employed people with mental health problems” might be setting the bar a little low. Then remembered I was supposed to be doing something else and forgot to message them back either way.
Allocated time to respond to emails I actually cared about, but began to clean up the 12,000 promotional emails I spend half my day sifting through, wondering how I became such a target for politicized and scientific emails, but also grateful because my spam could be so much worse. Realized I missed a dozen events in February. (Sorry).
Sat down to write, but went to the Catskills.
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