toast

My bedroom reeks of pot but I swear I haven't been smoking, even if you don't believe me. Seriously, you don't want to see me high. It isn't pretty. Did you know all the Main Line moms toke up after they put the kids to bed? It was the cover story in Philadelphia Magazine. I saw it in Whole Foods the other month. But I've always been a black sheep, despite my adolescent yearnings to fit in, so I do not partake. Is it even pot anymore? I think it would kill me.


Anyway, a friend of mine is in school for acupuncture and she's gone rogue. So that's not a marshmallow roast on my back. It's moxa. Made from mugwort. And it smells like cheeba y'all. Toasts my muscles and meridians, from what I've gleaned. I could tell you more, but I'd have to research it first and I'm already procrastinating like crazy.

It's not fully legal, our little deal, otherwise I'd link her. Pimp her. I feel lucky to gain from her services now, before she graduates, because she's good. She calls herself a fixer. I'll call her The Fixer. Subtle difference. But. It works for me. So The Fixer has been generous enough to practice on me to the tune of a couple pounds of grass-fed beef per session and I am her willing pin cushion. So far, no one's gotten hurt, the jury is still out on the results but it's a process, and I've even learned a little. About damp. And metal.

But the smell. It takes me back. Glad to Be Here Now as they say, away from those miserable teenage years. I'll take a clear mind and a muddled spine over its opposite any day of the week.

That's my ramble. Okay time to scrub the bathroom with a toothbrush. Wait—maybe I am high...