Today as we sat down to smoke copious amounts of weed in preparation for writing this week’s list in our series of stoner lists, something tragic happened. We realized we were lighterless. Because of this atrocious mishap, this week’s stoner series veers from our usual list form. Rather we've taken it upon ourselves to write an open letter to lighters, so maybe they will stop playing so fucking hard to get.
To my elusive friend the Lighter,
Though you are small in might, you hold the key to my happiness. You are the
apple cherry of my eye. Your power is truly supreme and with one swift thrust of my thumb you make all my dreams come true.
We stoners have all found ourselves in the following situation before: we've packed a bowl of luscious greens and cannot wait to place piece to mouth. I reach into my pocket and pull out my hand, only to find it empty. I frantically search through every nook and cranny of my stoner den: couch cushions, the empty tube of pringles, inside the Family Guy DVD box set… your sudden disappearance more mysterious than the bitch on the milk carton. A lone tear streams down my cheek as it dawns on me that the plant in my piece cannot be transformed into smoke in my lungs (of course, a true stoner will find some jank method to light a bowl, like what pot head hasn’t knelt next to their stove and prayed that their eyebrows don’t get singed off?)
The lighter phenomenon is really only known to two groups of people: potheads and crackheads. We know little about the second group, but most stoners can count on one hand the number of times we've actually walked into a store and picked one out of the BIC family rainbow. It just doesn’t happen. Lighters are acquired, utilized and kept but no one knows how or why. We have a theory similar to the Christmas fruitcake theory: there are like 100 lighters in the world and they are all just continuously exchanged back and forth between stoners, like the popular strand of VD at a brothel.
Which brings us to the next element of lighter ideology: the fucking Lighter Snatcher. While we all despise the Lighter Snatcher, the obvious irony is that we all do it. As we said, no one buys lighters which means the only way we are able to obtain them is accidentally pocketing our dealer's, or our friends' or whatever fucking flame-producing method we can get our hands on.
Some might argue that the lighter dilemma is not limited to stoners but we disagree, like we can guarantee that the fat chain-smoking secretary at your office has been using the same lighter since 2010. The reason it's so impossible for a stoner betch to keep track of ours is that we’re just too fucking high. It’s a vicious cycle but until we are able to light our bowls using our Matilda powers, we have no intention of breaking it.
So, Lighter, it's clear that you're integral in my quest for everlasting happiness yet only in your absence am I able to fully appreciate you. You giveth and taketh away. It's like the Counting Crows always say, don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you got till it's gone?
Let There Be Light