Monday, January 23, 2012


I have a pretty firm policy of minding my own damn business when it comes to people doing drugs in front of me.  Don't misunderstand, I am not "cool".   The D.A.R.E. anthem plays in my head, and I all but stop drop and roll out of the situation.   When I was in Sweden I saw a couple snorting cocaine off the sink and I stared at them, made a strange gurgling noise, and might have mumbled something like "no big deal," while dashing out of the room.  SO I pretty much party like a rock star.

Today, however, I was dismayed when I walked off the elevator on to my floor and was overcome by the scent of head shop.   There was also an aroma of incense, which was doing nothing to cover up the blatant smell of marijuana.  I was annoyed.   If I wanted my home to smell like marijuana I would have invited LMAFO over to stay the weekend.  I walked down the hall, and identified the cannabis culprit as my terrible neighbor, who is loud, rude, and has stunk up my hallway before.    I was going to mind my business, and just build up a healthy level of passive aggressive resentment, maybe kick her door on my way to work tomorrow, but then I walked into my apartment and the whole thing REEKED of the mary jane.  Fuck this.   I pay too much for my apartment for it to smell like a commune.  

We have a courtesy officer in our building, which means if someone is watching TV too loud at 3 am, you call him and bitch, and then he in turn goes to knock on the door and tell the offending occupant to get their shit together.  Your next door neighbor smoking pot is a perfect example of a time to call the courtesy officer.  I, however,  had a minor moral dilemma about whether or not I should tattle.  It seemed sort of against my generation. Should I just go knock on the door myself?  Or better yet, leave a note that says, "Just smoke in your car, because if I smell pot again I'm going to call the officer," so I can be anonymous and she would have the chance to correct their behavior without getting in trouble.   But then I smelled my kitchen, which could easily have been mistaken for the bathroom at a Grateful Dead concert, and I was filled with righteous anger.  Again, fuck this. 

I dialed the officer and when I reported the situation, I found out that this girl is already getting evicted. In fact, she got her eviction notice today so her bong session is probably some kind of "statement" about that.  Apparently the several other times when she was blasting Bob Marley at 3am, when I let it slide, someone else was willing to nut up and bring down the hammer.  

Still, I guess I'm officially a NARC.   

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