Batty Comes Clean

The following account contains explict details of sordid and illegal malfeasance, if you are offended by this type of reading material, stop here! 
 
Dateline, 14 January, 1972
 
I was wary, wary of that funny little cigarette that I had been given by a certain Mr. ‘Stoner’. "Save it for later, man..its some heavy sh*t, man.," he said. Well I knew that it had a slightly malodorous scent, but I was certain that it was not excrement, and it was actually light as a feather. I slipped it into my shirt-pocket and thanked him, not knowing what havoc this seemingly innocent gesture would wreak on my simple existence. I went home, and went straight to bed, for I knew that I had chores to do in the morning.
Saturday morning I awoke refreshed, ate my usual breakfast (Oatmeal, O.J. and Ovaltine) and went straight to work: Doing the laundry. I was carefully emptying the pockets of my garments (I almost washed a five dollar bill once!) when I rediscovered the aforementioned ‘doobie’. Hmm… I had the house to myself, I was stuck here for a couple of hours at least, why not? I found a book of matches by the hot-water heater, and proceeded to ‘burn one’.

Now let us pause the narrative here, and allow me to explain my post-grad laundry technique:

1. Cram
2. Wash
3. Dry
4. Stuff

I was well into step 2 when the first effect of the potent narcotic hit me. Somehow the laundry room became an enchanted fairyland, and the hum of the washer was a symphony, with the scent of the detergent becoming ambrosia. The cycle ended with a chime, or rather a great Tibetan gong, calling me to rescue my now limp attire from its watery ride. I somehow manage to fill the dryer and start it, and then took the regrettable step of relighting the ‘devil's weed’ and consumed the remainder. Perhaps it was the dope mixed with the chemicals in the dryer sheets that caused me to take the next step. As the dryer stopped, I took out my togs, and instead of casually tossing them into a hamper for the trip upstairs, I began to carefully caress each one, examining the stitching and fabric.

How long I was in this stupor, I do not know. All that I remember is waking up, hours later, surrounded by neatly folded and stacked laundry, sorted by drawer, and color (darks on the bottom, then colors, with whites on top.)

I never again smoked that filthy stuff but—I have to admit—that to this day, my clothes are always neatly put away when they are clean.