|Z. Luc Haust // Apollōn (radiantdelphi) wrote in paxletalelogs,
@ 2011-08-04 20:59:00
i smoke two joints before i smoke two joints..
Who: Luc and Lucy.
What: Stoner times.
Where: Pax Letale, apt 1005.
When: Friday, August 5, 2011. 4:20pm. No, really.
Warnings: Drug usage (though I maintain marijuana is not a drug..) and probably language. It can't be helped.
Notes: None yet..
It had taken Luc most of the day to sleep off his hangover - not that he'd gotten very drunk the night before at the club, just that the cheap scotch he'd been drinking didn't sit well with him. He was a spoiled drunk, after all. His body wasn't the kind to let him forget that knowledge.
He'd rolled out of bed sometime around 2:45 in the afternoon, and if he hadn't decided to give himself the day off in every sense of the word (as in one of Luc's few days without any sort of to-do list, a rarity in and of itself), he probably would have been very upset with his own behavior. But, luckily for him, it was a day off, and so he took his time preparing himself breakfast, taking a nice, leisurely shower after he'd eaten. He didn't bother to shave, because he didn't really think he had anyone to impress that day - besides, he'd shaved before he left for the club the night before. Rubbing a palm across the light stubble on his cheek, he figured he was doing okay for today.
He found a purple American Apparel shirt in his clean pile of laundry (that he would have to put away tomorrow because, again, he had the day off) and a pair of Calvin Klein jeans that were older than most things he owned anymore - didn't even bother with underwear, because he was a classy gent like that on days like this. The shirt was long enough to cover any indications that he was going commando, and that was good enough for him.
After putting the dirty dishes in the sink to be cleaned later, he made his way to the bedroom to pull his stash box out of the nightstand drawer - perching on the edge of his bed while he broke up some of the "Cali O.G. Kush" (as it had been pandered to him as, but the names of such things really didn't mean shit to him - as long as it was good and got him high, they could call it "Eskimo Bunnyfuck" and he'd buy it) to roll a nice, fat joint between his fingers. A skill he'd honed over many years - as marijuana was the only thing that he'd ever done that he would probably never quit. There may come a day in the unforseeable future where he would quit drinking (if he had to) - and he'd never been much for designer chemical drugs like cocaine or ecstasy, or much of a prescription pill-popper - but marijuana was something he would never, ever give up. For anyone or anything. It was one of the few things that calmed him down and zenned him out - and with how stressed he got from working with some of the most high-maintenance people on the planet? He needed something for that. Hell, he deserved it for how much bullshit he had to put up with more often than he didn't.
It was as he was rolling said joint, though, that he remembered a discussion with one of his downstairs neighbors (though pretty much everyone in the complex was his downstairs neighbor, he supposed) about.. well, exactly what he was about to do. And in the past week while he'd been so swamped with things he had to do, he had forgotten he'd made semi-plans to hang out with one certain Lucy who shared a love for that bitch Mary Jane. So, tucking the joint behind his ear (it was nice that he could smell it from there as well - and his longish hair covered it nicely from unwanted attention), he went into the kitchen to wrestle up some snacks - a bag of Cheetos (stoner staple), a new container of Oreos, and a six-pack of 7up (not everyone was all for caffeine, after all, and he liked to be correct about things when going into new situations) from the fridge.
He arranged them to where he could carry it all as well as his keys and cell phone, then headed out the door to the elevator - barefoot, but he was staying in the building, so he didn't think it would matter really. He was concerned they hadn't gotten the elevator fixed for a brief moment, but by the time he'd considered taking the stairs there was a DING and the doors opened wide. So it was easy getting to the 10th floor, and to apartment 1005 - which he only worried was the right apartment after he'd knocked on it. Because he was the great thinker, Luc Haust. Only, you know, not.