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The struggle for control and dominance is all about concentration. Concentration, which is something I need for taking control… of my host.
But my landlord host knows that. He knows the effects of drugs. The effects of lethal marijuana overdose. He knows his concentration would be rendered null with but a single smoke of a blunted marijuana tendon. He knows mine would be as well.
So my landlord is my anti-drug. He won’t let me take control long enough to smoke this fat doobie to weaken his poor mind, because his lightweight body wouldn’t be able to handle the force of it. Darkness would reign supreme, just from one of Mary Jane’s arthritis infected joints entering his lungs. And he knows this.
Yet I would also be weakened, theoretically leading to my host taking advantage of my mile high state to commit atrocities, like flushing me down the toilet. So I say yes to saying no, so my landlord won’t flush the Ancient Egyptian artifact made out of my family that I’m living in down the toilet.
Landlords. They’re my anti-drug because they won’t let you do shi—