I don’t know what you’re talking about man, I’m not holding. I don’t even know what holding means. But if I did know what it means, and if I were in fact doing it (which is not to be taken to mean that I am) I would be holding the best stuff you’ve ever seen.

In fact, I don’t even consider it pot (because it’s not like I have any), that’s too simple a term. It’s too common, that’s not the line of work I would want to be in. No, I would be selling something much, much more. It’s not Skunkle Jemimah, or Great Coral Reefer. To use those products (if they even exist, I’m not sure because I’m not well versed in the world of marijuana) would be like sniffing glue out of a paper bag compared to what I would have. If I were to sell weed, it would be the most glorious stuff you’ve ever seen. It would be like smoking frankincense (which I have done on occasion). I would make sure that it was only the finest weed, delivered to me by a guy named Ray-Ray, who works out of an alley down by 53rd street (don’t go looking for him though, I totally just made that name up).

You could smoke my stuff and be taken on a journey of epic proportions. You would see colors that you thought never existed (like quarple) and hear sounds that you’ve never heard before. Have you ever heard the sound of pure music as played by a trombolin (a cross between a trombone and a violin)? Well, I have, and it’s magical. I’m sorry though, I don’t have anything to sell you that could give you that experience. If I did though, I would tell you that I just got a shipment in yesterday, and because you’re a good guy, I’ll sell it to you at a discount.

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Weed deal
If a deal were to go down, it should probably appear cautious and suspicious to the average onlooker.
What’s that? You want some of my mythical product? Sorry, I can’t help you, I don’t have any. This was just a mind game, an exercise in cognition. There’s no possible way that I could contain what my mind has just conjured in a Ziploc bag. And even if I could, there’s no way I could surreptitiously slip that bag to you in a manner that made it look like we were casually shaking hands. Plus, you could be a cop, not that such a thing would matter because there’s nothing illegal going on here (but seriously, are you a cop? Because legally you have to tell me).

You want to know the price? How can you put a price on hope…on love? You can’t, it would be totally arbitrary. I could say something like "40 dollars for an eighth," but what would that really mean? Can exclusively human concepts such as numbers even begin to define something as ephemeral as eternal pleasure? Are you kidding me? I can’t sell you eternal pleasure for 25 bucks! That’s absurd. Just look at these nugs of happiness. Look at the buds of dignity. Also, I should take this time to say that "nugs" and "buds" are simply denominations of happiness and dignity, and have no link to the jargon found in marijuana subculture.

I don’t think you understand what’s going on here. I don’t sell pot, I sell dreams.

Also, I sell pot.


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