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| https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Police_dog |
Being an international drug dealer is nerve-wracking work, not that I had great credentials. My asshole boyfriend from Oneonta forced me into it as a student, like the babbling controlling douchebag he really is. One of his older brothers was taller and more handsome than he was, attending school at the same time. His boho musician lifestyle (he was dating John Cryer's half-sister at the time) fascinated his younger brother, without my boyfriend having any genuine talents besides smoking pot and talking on and on and on about it. He works in entertainment as a lawyer now. Being a "bullshit artist" is his true gift, which made him hate the arts (and people in the arts) even more.
I knew I had to jettison him later on down the line, because of his obvious distaste for skill sets that he could never possess, but that didn't stop him from trying to use and abuse me while he could.
When I told him I would be attending art school in some way in the near-future, he decided to act like I was a cruel deceiver to him that he could thwart by transferring to McGill University as a SUNY student first, like my life existed only in relation to him and his ego. Along with his weird baby-style head games came a huge host of other insecurities he had a very long list to, that he found extremely exciting to bore you with in overwrought detail, like how his musician bro could lure women to him, because he was a lover. It seemed to him to be this pretend magnet that other people had, as a greater superpower he couldn't deconstruct for himself, no matter how hard he tried.
I basically gave in to him and his whining, if he carried on long enough (he's the youngest of six children), like a harried exhausted mom with toddlers would. Yeah, fine, let's move on from this, will ya?
And that's exactly how his hare-brained scheme involving pot came to be. Once he found out that I was willing to take a train from Grand Central Station all the way to Montreal, he thought he had a real "live" one on the line. He seized onto this idea that his classmates would be driven wild with fan appreciation over his securing real weed for them, because all they had in Canada was hash, and I knew by the way he drove me to it, that he had a real hidden agenda, which was this: getting me arrested and derailing my college career by getting me thrown into jail, because I got into a great Ivy League school, which proved that I'm smarter and more talented than him, despite all the tall tales he'd been feeding to his friends up there, where he thought he could lie his way to success, and that's exactly how it went down.
He thought he got "the jump" on me by using his superior mental powers to browbeat me into buying a quarter bag of pot that I carefully hid among my stuff.
Sure, it was a tense half an hour or so of waiting, when the train stopped at the borderline between the states and Canada, but, of course, he'd actually schooled me in their exact time frames (because actual criminals are not as smart as the cops who catch them, in real life), because luckily for me, he couldn't resist the urge to prove to me how brilliant he was in his plan, by actually talking me all the way through it. Sure enough, Border Patrol came through with bomb/drug-snuffing German Shepherds and everything, but because my suitcase was stowed high above my head on the racks above me (and out of reach of anyone else), the cops took one look at my angelic little face, read my passport and paperwork, and then moved on down the line.
It took awhile for them to go down the entire length of the train, but scour it they did, until the final lurch of the car that signaled we were moving on. Whew! I made it!
He'd also done the same strange contest with me about pot in Amsterdam during a summertime trip to Europe, hoping that I would get caught and he wouldn't, but all that happened was that he smoked pot over the rest of his summer at his family's home in Bay Ridge, while I rode it out empty-pocketed in New City, because my pot portion was nabbed by a stoner mail carrier, and his was not. That was it. Once I got to his school in Montreal, all that happened as a result of my pot stash was that we got high with his friends while drinking Canadian beer, instead of smoking hash in Oneonta while drinking New York beer. Like, wow, dude. It was kind of like driving across the border to buy beer with a higher alcohol content in Canada, and then driving it back to O-town: all we did with it was have a party. That was it.
He tried his hand at a few other petty con games, like saying that his rather ugly (but, like, wayyy smarter) Canadian friends had given him the bad news that I was incredibly beautiful but, like, unfortunately for me, not as smart as him, like they were some college board I hoped to "ace", but that the good news was that they could totally see why he was attracted to me, which he delivered in a rather sour, downcast way, like a doctor giving his patient bad news. Awwww, that's too bad, Bart....<insert frown face here> In another unfortunate coincidence for him, I was already accepted into the best art and design school in the world with the lowest admission rates on Planet Earth (as well as every other high-ranking art school I applied to), while his "brilliant" friend Jean-Paul was relegated to a small-time Nova Scotian art school for his next college degree, in this highly ironic Acadian twist that's all me and my true grit, done for you in this century, y'all. You in my country now, boy! And that's exactly how it all goes down in this girls' real life "Game of Thrones": game, set, match. Done! See you on the beach 'round the bonfire, mes amis. This mama's coming home.
