It's 4:19, got a minute?

See, I would be mad at my boss for telling me that he's going female tomorrow afternoon and, therefore, I'm going to be the point man for Friday and Saturday, our two busiest nights of the week...

But then he told me that after the Saturday runs, I'm to come upstairs to his apartment for devotional retraining with Mary.

I don't think fuck yes quite covers it.

( For the first time in weeks, waking up to face a day without his husband doesn't seem like such a terrifying concept. )

Receiving a delivery of deliciously sweet cupcakes today reminded me that it's almost Halloween. I suppose I've been too preoccupied to worry about the holiday, but now... I don't know, it's a bit late to plan anything huge. If I were to suggest throwing a party, even one at the Highway, I have a feeling that Cam would throw something at me. Whatever's available to him, really, even his precious Macbook Pro, which betrays just how annoyed he is with me right now. But, hey, at least everyone got a full night's sleep last night, which is more than I can say for the past few weeks. I really put my poor crew through a lot, but they flourish under pressure, so I suppose I don't have to feel overly guilty about it.

Still, we can't let Halloween pass without celebrating in some way, even if we all just dress up as zombies - Bryn can work wonders with her make-up kit - and go out drinking. Any kickass parties going on?

( Delivered to Opium. )

My boss is a fucking idiot.

But... at least he went on the runs with us tonight, after he stumbled home looking happier than he has- no, this is a very bad thing. Which means, hopefully, that I'm no longer unofficial-acting-first-in-command. And that means that I don't have to swallow caffeine capsules while stuffing my face with espresso beans and chasing it all with liberal chugs of Red Bull.

I think I might actually sleep tonight.

( On Wednesday, Marijuana hits rock bottom. )

Neruda, you bastard.

( It's been more than a week. )

I swear, I have the sweetest son a father could hope for you know, aside from all that legalization crap. The kid didn't have school yesterday and, while I wasn't expecting a visit, he showed up at the shop, arms filled with boxes and a carrier with this little guy inside. Apparently, he's a... blue tongued skink and I only had to wonder why they're called that for a moment before his bright blue tongue darted out over my fingers. Tommy talked me out of calling him 'Lizzie', saying that I should be less stoned and more creative and, "besides, Dad, Lizzie is a girl's name!" So I got a little more stoned and a lot more creative and decided that he looked like a Cheech.

I think it's fitting... Cheech, the blue tongued skink.

I don't want to do this. It makes it real, but I can't go on pretending that everything is normal, can't continue to keep this bottled up. It'll come out, the mortals will mention it, Tommy will mention it, someone will spill and then it'll look like I was too hurt to say anything. I can't appear to be devastated on top of everything else, it would be too humiliating and this entire experience is already humiliating enough. The Drug who's had half his siblings in his bed, trying to make a marriage work... and failing, just like everyone predicted. Heroin, who never leaves a lover, cutting me loose and pretending that it's all about my freedom. I've already suffered enough debasement at his hands; I begged to get him, begged to keep him, and allowed myself to lose so much for him. One more hit, one more loss of dignity, and then it can be over. Just pretend not to care. Be casual.

And here I thought that marriage, trying to mash two lives together, was difficult. No, the really difficult task is cleaning up after it all once the divorce papers are signed and sent in. There's just so much to do. I have to change my name back, which creates a whole mess of other issues. A bunch of shit needs to be sent to storage, from the piano to all that Victorian furniture that always looked out of place in my perfect stoner apartment. Two cars and a mobile home need to be locked up in a garage somewhere and I'll be splurging on something new, perhaps a Buggati Veyron. Everything I moved out of the Highway needs to be returned and, man, is it going to be good to have my Janis Joplin posters up on the walls again. Revise the playlists for the shop front, less Pearl Jam and RHCP and more Joplin, Beatles, and Grateful Dead. Disassemble the hot tub and greenhouse on the roof, rework the garden before it gets too cold what am I going to do with the poppies?, get rid of the recording studio in the back room, sell off at least one piece of property and... does anyone want to buy a helicopter?

I'm being told that I have to shower and come downstairs to approve this weekend's schedule. Apparently, I have a drug empire to run. Who knew?

( ETA: Mark. )

( Withdrawal is a bitch. )

( Harvey Milk. )

( Mark. )

OOC: The first cut contains graphic descriptions of heroin withdrawal symptoms and could be triggering.

It wasn't the lack of Heroin's presence that notified Marijuana that something was wrong. After all, he'd started to assume that Heroin would be in their apartment every night, waiting for Marijuana to come home from the late night runs. It didn't even occur to him to check with his immortal senses or tug along their connection as he walked up the stairs; Heroin would be there, of course Heroin would be there. And it wasn't that his knickknacks and posters had been returned from storage where he'd sent them to make room for Heroin in his home and his heart; Marijuana was too tired to do more than trudge through the living room and didn't stop to look around.

What got him was the silence.

For months, over a year, really, the gurgle of Stoney's tank had filled their apartment with quiet white noise. It was soothing, really, and a constant reminder of Marijuana and Heroin's love, of their dedication to each other, and brought back memories of their snapping turtle trying to bite off chunks of their fingers.

It was gone. The apartment was deafeningly quiet, void of any noise whatsoever. Marijuana stopped at the entrance to the hallway that led to their bedroom and looked to where Stoney's tank should be; it was gone.

His heart pounding, the insides of his arms itching, Marijuana hurried into the bedroom, hoping that this was some huge joke, hoping to see Heroin waiting for him, but, no. There was just a box, which Marijuana ignored in favour of opening the envelope with shaking fingers.

A letter.

Divorce papers, already signed.

( Marijuana crumbled. )

( Cam, Wes, Matt, and Bryn. )

So I just realized that I gave Cam the orders to plan a party over a week ago and extended the invitation all down through the ranks, through Wes' guards, Cam's techies, Bryn's contacts, the lower runners, the pushers, the middle-men, and so on and so forth. But I never made the actual announcement to the general immortal public or to my family and that was rather absentminded of me, seeing as it'll be a party to celebration a sibling's birthday. I guess I can just chalk it up to being even busier than normal lately. It's like taking candy from an extremely pious baby. I might have to make these christian rehab center excursions a weekly venture

Anyway, getting back to the main point. On September 30th, starting late afternoon and going all night, there will be a party at my warehouse by the docks to celebrate Ketamine's birthday. In-keeping with tradition, it will be a blow-out of excess and extreme intoxication; free alcohol and drugs for all who attend, of course, and Cam's working on getting the rope jungle-gym-in-the-air set back up in time. Plus, we're modifying the vodka river, but... I think I'll leave that part as a surprise, given that it's one of my birthday presents for my little brother.

So come on out! Especially you, brothers, sisters. It's been too long since we've all been together in the same room.

Mount Sinai Drug Treatment Center. CMR Recovery Residence. New Life Christian Rehab Center. Utica Rescue Mission.

( Marijuana drives. )

( Drug Family. )

So, a little over a year ago, I wrote a list of stuff I wanted for my birthday. Most of it I accumulated over the past little while; I've added at least two new tattoos, I got the tongue stud I wanted, I have two pets, I eventually did get around to buying the coffee shop next door, I bought a boat for Heroin, he bought a Lambo for me, the security system has had at least two overhauls and my toy collection just keeps growing... but there was still one thing missing from that silly list. A helicopter.

Not anymore! I was given one on my anniversary. Now, a year ago, I would have been planning on using it for drug deliveries and trying to goad Mark into a game of mid-air chicken with his private jet, all without any training or a license or bothering to worry about stuff like bylaws and no-fly zones. Really, I probably would have been arrested within the first few days of having it. But I like to think I've grown since I wrote that list, grown enough to book helicopter flying lessons, do the proper research into exactly how to get a license and exactly how to get flight plans approved... all that responsible stuff. And you'd think that would put a damper on my excitement, but, nope! I want to do this properly, take my time and take full advantage of the gift.

Also, we're taking our new traveling home to Fire Island for a bit, so anyone who needs anything, just give Cam a call, he'll know how to teach me.

Also, I need a new list.

( Left for Heroin. )

There are scarily realistic stuffed bears in my bedroom. Like, a lot of scarily realistic stuffed bears. Like, they're arranged in a circle around my bed and I'm so high that I think one of them growled at me while I was cracking up. (Note to self: Lay off the hash oil.) At least they're in alternating colours... though, if they arranged themselves like that, it implies some sort of super bear intelligence that I should be pretty scared of...

Okay, now I'm just being silly, they didn't arrange themselves! Heroin, mi amante, did you do this? Or maybe Matt decided to play a prank? Or... who else could it be?

Seriously? Damn, I want ten black bears to guard each of my grow-ops.

( Heroin. )

Cam says I'm insane. And in this case, I might be, but it's only because I love my son!

( The Drug Family, the First Family, and those connected to the First Family, like Glibt. Blocked from Tommy. )

( Heroin. )

Cam, I'm dividing up your second-in-command duties up between the rest of the crew so you can work on two special projects that both need to be completed between now and the twentieth. You'll still go on runs, of course, but you need to focus on working miracles for me.

Come upstairs once you've finished retuning the hydroponic set-up and I'll give you the details and three of my credit cards.

( Heroin. )

$1.7 billion taken off the street and destroyed, it's not that big of a deal. Just a matter of rearranging things in my head, opening power conduits that I usually leave firmly closed off. And, of course, it also took a phone call to meMarc, who is going to do his best to pour in product across the BC border. He's still not too pleased with me; he knows me well enough to know that I welcomed Emery's extradition if it meant getting our Marc across the border and under my control. So I'll owe him a favour or two and the particular brand of favour will probably depend on which counterpart-sibling is his favourite at the moment.

Did anyone catch last week's Futurama, the one with the forward-only-time-machine? It was definitely a... thinky sort of episode. Either time is circular and at some point, I can go back, or forward, to meet Shakespeare (although I don't know why I would want to) or every time the universe ends, it starts back up again and ends up being an exact copy of the universe before it (only ten feet lower, of course, so you can squish those pesky time paradox duplicates with your time machine). Which is kind of mind-boggling, if you ask me, when you wonder just how many times the universe has formed and faded before this version of it, when you wonder just how many times you've gone through the same changes and made the same choices. Makes me wonder if it's ever possible to deviate from this fictional scenario. And, of course, I'm also wondering if humanity will split off into two races, one made up of genius pink smurfs and one made up of really dumb Yeti (no thanks), wondering if society will evolve into a matriarchy of intelligent, buxom women who keep men as their sex slaves (fuck yes could be interesting), wondering if the machines really will take over the world (completely possible) but, then again, I'm also stoned out of my mind and I've watched the episode four times in a row.

I suppose I should think about something that actually makes sense... I'll go find Tommy and listen to his views on legalization.

I think it's time for a nice long nap. Will reevaluate certain business concerns when I wake up.

When I go on vacation, I expect to get calls from Cam, detailing how my mortals are misbehaving while I'm away. You know, Wes getting into bar fights, Matt getting too high to work, Bryn causing a scuffle between the guards, all rather normal occurrences. Never really thought I'd get a call about Tommy, though.

Interesting.

( Left for Heroin in their hotel room. )

( Text to Heroin. )

Plan A was a bust. The Organic can't return what it didn't take in the first place. Should try Plan B on Wednesday, especially because- Heroin and I are taking a mini-vacation next weekend, ziplining in New Hampshire. Flying through nature on a rope... fun!

( Mark, Glibt, Heroin. )

Procrastination, it makes slobs and sloths out of all of us, especially one who is prone to laziness to begin with. It's more than fine to work, to go on runs, to play laser tag and relax with my husband afterward, but there's a task, an attempt, always floating in the back of my mind. Should, should, should, don't fucking want to try. No, I'd rather rewatch yesterday's robosexual marriage episode of Futurama and laugh at the tornado scene. And there's Halo to play, schedules to go over and pie charts. Always pie charts. They're the best way to illustrate just how much legalization just... sucks as a concept.

I wish they'd stop doing studies, though. $80 for an ounce of good shit, if I'm legalized in California. There are twenty-eight grams in an ounce and if you assume that it takes half a gram to roll a somewhat decent joint, that works out to about $1.40 per joint. I feel- like a five dollar hooker I don't like that. Still, cheaper prices means more use and more use means more power, but at what cost?

( GHB. )

It's a good thing that we've only got a few minor pot runs and a relatively small heroin run tomorrow, because the lower runners are handling that. It's time for Highway Laser Tag! Man, I love it when the bossman turns his neuroses into something fun, if not productive. Teams are as such:

Team Awesome: Tommy, Wes, Bryn, Keir.
Team Fucking Awesome: Marc, Matt, Cam, Sylvia, Adam.
Referee/Bartender: Angel.
Spectators: Nisha, with room for more, of course!

Any other takers? We've rented out the entire place starting from two in the afternoon onward. Should be enough of a buffer period, I think. It's bound to be a brutal game and everyone on the winning team gets their weight in the drug of their choice.

11 249 plants here, 22 million dollars there; I barely felt it. Okay, so that's a lie, but- In any case, I was far too busy drinking yesterday (whiskey, of course, only appropriate for Jim) and today was spent trying to get that perfect beer-to-pot ratio. You know, that magic mixture that does away with the hangover headache and makes you able to eat without wanting to throw it all back up. And it worked; Cam and I are on the roof playing one of our favourite games. First one to shoot a firework across the street and into Wes' window gets... well, we're not really sure what the winner gets, seeing as no one's ever managed to aim it properly.

Although there was that one time when it landed on his windowsill...

( Private. )

( Heroin. )