Where are all the cool hippy guys out there? I would drive to Santa Cruz, park my fine ass in a park, playing my ukulele, eating tofu jerky, waving a clear baggy of catnip tied to a stick and spend a day trying to lure a cool stoner to join me on my blanket of love…,but I have a real 8-5 job and can’t afford that luxury. So where do I find one of you earthenware brothas?
I’m tired of shmuckety-schmuck yuppies with money. Frankly, their cars are usually a better ride than they are. That, and they’re notorious cheaters. It’s as if faithfulness dives to the ground on the seesaw when success, money, and a hot car rises to the sky on the other end. Before any of you peg me as some kind of sad self-pitying chick whose Daddy left her & so she is doomed to chase cheaters & beaters and sabotages her relationships because she feels unworthy of a man’s love, just know that I do not engage in self-pity, ever, because I have a great life full of blessings & achievements & I realize I have it better than 99% of the world’s population. That, and I have a great relationship with my father. I’m just slamming a certain segment of the population that I have had extensive personal experience with.
In my quest for the “right” boyfriend, (right for me, right for right now, whatever) I have dated various types, from the poor starving artist, to the self-absorbed bodybuilder, to sugardaddy types, to the intellectual Seinfeld guy next door. They all failed, though not always miserably. Yet, being the eternal optimist, I am on to the next type and, fingers crossed, we will hit the mark for a good time. At least I think I’d know what to expect with a cool stoner guy (though surprises are nice). I’m thinking…..MELLOW TIMES. I like to laugh.
Here are my revised criteria for the next boyfriend-You must be either: a) an unemployed djembe player (if you must google djembe, then you’re obviously not down to par) b) a trust fund baby with real, intended if not realized, artistic goals c) just plain confused about why the hell you haven’t packed up & moved to the islands yet d) employed at some warehouse, the atmosphere of which leads you to gripe about the “establishment” and the political agenda of your Nazi floor supervisor.
You must have scruffy, shaggy hair, all over, preferably, au natural, be it on your face, head, or body. Bonus points if you smell like patchouli. Dress in soft cargo shorts & thrift store shirts, own no socks and not enough sandals & look rockin’ in either snowboard/surfer gear, or shirtless if you’re a rockclimber. You have a favorite hat, favorite pajamas, and a good luck charm.
You must live in either Santa Cruz or a treehouse. Somewhere with a lot of trees, preferably, so we could take nature walks & oil paint the pretty flowers together. One of us would have to purchase a compass or be able to navigate by sun/stars in case we get lost out there.
You must either: a) own a car that you can’t drive b) drive a car you don’t own c) have the ability to drive my car, if not the urge to want to. I am happy to provide & fulfill the various material needs of this relationship, however I do like to be treated like a lady now & again and be driven around by her smooth new stoner boyfriend. It’s cool. I have a convertible. No, not everyone is looking at you.
You must love to eat, because I love to cook. I can fix us stoner-approved goodies like an array of munchy crunchy finger foods OR I can cook a gourmet dinner that won’t be lost on your extra-heightened tastebuds. One thing I won’t do is use flaxseed because that crap gave me an allergic reaction and my tongue turned blue & I spoke with a lame novocaine-like fubblelisp for days. You must love to cuddle and be happy to leave a shirt that smells like you for me to sniff when you’re not around. I will not be burning incense in your absence, so this seemingly tiny detail is critical.
Since I am the professional career woman and will be supporting you & financing most of our outings, it is critical that you be thoughtful, entertaining or have some talent(s) to amuse us with. I will buy you that new surfboard if you design something out of hemp rope & barbwire (to showcase the symbiosis of Nature & Man) for me to hang as a mobile above our bed.
You should probably have a prescription for ya medicine, feel? I mean, if you have no choice but to get it illegally, then I understand, it’s just that they issue you these cool little ‘green cards’ when you’re under a cool Doctor’s dope Rx.
You must be comfortable giving & receiving massages and capable of lots of stimulating sexoccupations because there’s nothing hotter than being able to do yoga in bed, balancing Funyuns on our nipples, engaging in textural pudding wrestling, blowing smokeballs in each other’s mouths, and bragging to friends about the time when you should’ve pulled a tantric muscle but didn’t, because Maaan, that shit’s sooo ___fill in the blank__.
Most of our time together, after my long boring day in corporate America, will be spent a) smoking b) gettin’ busy c) eating d) playing videogames e) nature hikes f) planning the secession of Northern California
Okay, that’s about it. I like all types & races of men, your smile & eyes are most important. Of course, be in relatively good shape (it’ll come in handy for the yoga payoff) and taller than me (I’m 5’6’). Also, no one over 33.
If you are still a stoner at 34, then somewhere your mama went wrong. If you or someone you know fits all or most of the criteria above, and is generally a nice guy with few baggage (that he can remember), pass him my way.
Peace
~Future stoner chick-a-boom-puffpuff
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