Friday Editorial: What Should You Eat on 4/20? Some Ideas

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Wake up with the sun. Eat half a weed brownie, leftover from your ‘pot-cation’ to Colorado. Fall back asleep. Dream about eating. Dream that you can’t stop eating. Dream that something can’t stop eating you. Dream that you’re in the belly of the beast—the puffy Cheeto beast. 

Wake up early, for a Sunday. Make a to do list. Eat granola and yogurt for breakfast. Clean your room. Head to yoga, but decide to bite the bullet and stop at CVS for some household supplies. Forget, momentarily, what you already have enough of. Toothpaste? Tampons? Self-actualization? Furniture? Shampoo? History? Struggle? Significant friendships? An emergency contact? A mother? In a painful spasm of clarity that approaches a near-physical wisdom, realize only what you don’t have: a King size bag of miniature Cadbury eggs.

Wake up late, or don’t wake up at all. Why bother getting out of bed? You own a Roomba that you’ve trained to run pre-prepped, soggy cup o’ noodles from where you store them, on a low kitchen shelf, to your bedside.

You’re already awake, because last night was Saturday, bitchez. Eat a klonopin and go to a diner with seven of your closest stuffed animals.

Go to Café Ghia because you feel like doing something healthy for your body after that botched paprika cleanse. Take a personality quiz on your phone while you’re waiting for the waitress to notice all the carefully curated aspects of your external appearance: a look that ‘breathes slick and thoughtful,’ you imagine her thinking. Realize that you have Asperger’s. Take the quiz again.

Go rollar skating, omg Spring! Knit new socks for your boyfriend, omg Spring! Go berry picking in Maria Hernandez, omg Spring! Do a few tequila shots to cut into that seething certainty that you will never amount to anything, omg Spring!

Spend the day alternately working on your emergency pack (canned tuna, bottled water, string, gauze, Cheeto’s Puffs) and printing out copies of the latest UN report on global warming so that you can wallpaper your bedroom (and your roommate’s bedroom) with physical manifestations of the impending doom that saturates your daily existence.

Get high. Go to brunch. Duh, silly.


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