Hey what's up homedogs, mind if I join in on your smake? How've you been handling stuff? Do we really have to wear masks while we hit steamrollers, am I right? Like, should I swab down the bong? Oh, I should? Swabbing. Yea, it hasn't been easy, but I found one thing that's just taken my mind off everything else: that's right, I've been writing a romance novel.

Stop, you say--but not until I've explained myself. This isn't just about some wacky guy who, uh, gets down all stoned with a princess and then they like, hookup. Guys, this is a story for the ages. About a guy, just like you and me. And deep down he knows someone is out there just for him. And maybe he searches and searches for a bit. And that's when he meets...the bud of his dreams. 

That’s right. It’s a bud. Not like all those other stories. This is a plump, perfectly-trimmed nug, not too moist, not too dry, cured in some beautiful wine cellar, super sugary and fruity like fresh-baked muffins. And maybe he tries a taste, just dips his toes, and just has a long moment where he locks eyes with the bud, except the bud isn’t alive, but he like, well, he loads it and smakes it because that’s what you do, ha. 

Here, I should hit this, sorry.

And here's the clincher. It was under his nose the whole time. Like, a friend gave him a satchel with this beautiful huge nuggersh, and once he finds it, he just like, he cherishes it. He like, loves that thing. He puts it in this golden box and can't help but tell the world about it. 

I mean, this guy is really happy. Happiest he's ever been.

But then he realizes their time is short. The days are counted together. And it's just this daily struggle about a dude who loves this beautiful little nug so much, but he has to break off little parts of it and, like, smake it right in front of the bud.

Man, every time I say it, wow--doesn't that just move you? Sorry, argh homies, I got something in my eye.