Why can’t WEED be friends?

I’ve mentioned my hall to you guys before. There’s one aspect that I haven’t touched on yet. At one end there are glass doors that lead outside, and we use them as our fire exit. Where it goes to I call The Weeds due to the fact that it’s got a collection of shrubbery, and it’s the place where class-cutting stoners congregate.

My favorite part is when they try to get back in. Their brains are so fogged that I can’t help but be tickled. First they bang on the door until someone shows up, and it’s usually me. Then, when I show up, they point to the handle, letting me know that they want in. This is where I have to give them a hard time.

“What? What’s that? I can’t hear you. You want in—inside? But you are inside. I’m the one who’s outside. Can you let me in?”

With the time they spend trying to wrap their heads around what I just said and pulling on the doors to let me “inside,” security has shown up, who I called when the stoner knocked on the door in the first place.

Good times, good times...