Dear Art Institute Student,
I don’t know you. I don’t know your name and I am only assuming you are a student at the Art Institute based on our paths crossing in the stairwell within the floors that said school occupies and your rough age range.
Anyway, you smell like pot. Listen, I’m not saying I’m against you blazing up before heading into your afternoon class on business ethics or graphic illustration. I get it. You’re an art student and a rebel and you can’t even handle the drivel that the middle aged balding man is spouting at you from the front of the stark room they have you in without having at least a mild buzz. But you reek. Like I smelled you from a flight above before you even rounded the bend in the stairs and came into view.
Word of advice, don’t bake in your car for 20 minutes in the parking garage before directly headlining into class. Crack a window. Walk around the block to air out your band tee and hoodie. You live in Virginia, not Colorado. Lots of conservative folk chill in this area and won’t find it endearing that their fresh face, squeaky clean (or so they think) daughter that wants to be an Interior Decorator is sitting next to a drugbag with no morals or goals but to be stoned (their thoughts, not mine) so, don’t give them ammo to bother you. At least try and be a responsible pot head and keep your business a little more on the private side. Or move to Colorado. And while you’re at it, buy better bud. You smelled so funky that I thought a wet dog took a shit on a dead skunk then rolled in it before sneaking into our building.
The Working Adult Tenant Upstair with Contact High From Our Brief Encounter