A Conversations About Marijuana, Ladders, & Misdeeds

 by Sean H. Doyle

[open transmission]

“Hey, can I ask you for a favor?”

“Ummm. I’m really fucking high right now. What’s up?”

“Don’t you fucking laugh at me, okay? This is serious. You know how I like to go out onto my window ledge when I am talking on the phone, right?”

“Yeah. You do that a lot.”

“Don’t fucking laugh. I closed the window behind me because I didn’t want my kitten to try and climb out here with me, and now I am stuck on this fucking ledge.”

“You’re fucking kidding me, right?”

“No. I am not fucking kidding you.”

“Where is your brother?”

“He's asleep on the couch with his headphones on. I keep on reaching over and pounding on the window, but he's out cold.”

“You live on the fifth floor. The fuck am I gonna do? This is ridiculous - I don’t have a fucking six-story ladder just hangin’ around.”

“I told you not to laugh at me! Can’t you just come over here and bang on the front door until he wakes up? You can even just kick the door in - I don't fucking care.”

“Are you kidding me? Why don’t you just call the fucking Fire Department? I told you, I am really fucking high right now - there is no way I can drive all the way over there.”

“How high are you? I’ve been in a car with you when you’re high - you drive just fine. Please?”

“If I’m telling you that I’m really fucking high, that means that I am too fucking high to drive.”

“I can’t call the Fire Department. They’ll fucking laugh at me for being so stupid.”

“I’m laughing at you because this kind of shit could only happen to you. And think about it like this - maybe one of the firemen will feel bad for you and fuck you?”

“You are an asshole, you know that? Seriously - how high are you? If you come help me I‘ll suck your dick like I used to. Please?”

“As tempting as that is, I'm not kidding about being really fucking high. This might be the best weed I have ever smoked in my entire fucking life. My entire apartment is wobbly and fuzzy, and I’m standing here drooling all over the phone while laughing at you.”

“You’re a fucking asshole. I really need you to help me out here, and you're laughing at me.”

“Remember that time when we were dating, and you stole my truck when I was asleep? You didn’t come back with it for two fucking days, and you somehow managed to blow out third gear.”

“I told you I was sorry about that.”

“Yeah, I know. Remember how you were behind on your rent and borrowed five hundred bucks from me, and promised me you’d pay me back as soon as you got paid?”

“Jesus. Is this why you’re not helping me? I know I’m a fuck-up, but really - is this the time to lay into me about all the stupid shit I pulled when we dated? How many fucking times do I have to say I'm sorry? I‘m stuck on a ledge five stories up at two in the morning.”

“Oh, c'mon - really? I swear I’m not trying to be a dick. I’m really fucking high, and you called me because you are stuck out on a goddamn window ledge? I'm just laughing. You’re a fucking weird girl, Monica.”

“Fuck you, Sean.”

[end transmission]

Sean H. Doyle lives in Brooklyn, New York. He is hard at work on a memoir that you probably won't want to read without consulting your therapist first. 

His writing can be found through a simple Google search of his name, or you can always go check out his [www.seanhdoyle.com] site. Sean does his own laundry.