If I'm going to be totally honest, I don't think that smoking weed is that big a deal.
Basically what's happening is I'm pleading guilty to possessing and having plants and not guilty to the charges of supply.
Our parents had to drive us to the gig, or even go in with us because of the liquor laws. The owners were really scared to death that we'd drink. We usually just went out somewhere and smoked weed. I don't smoke anymore, but back then we used to smoke quite a lot.
I don't know what my assistant would do besides get me pot.
All the Hennessy and weed can't hide, the pain i feel inside, its like I'm living just to die.
The disease of men is that they neglect their own fields and go to weed the fields of others.
Saying Good-bye to the God of Disease (1) Mauve waters and green mountains are nothing when the great ancient doctor Hua To could not defeat a tiny worm. A thousand villages collapsed, were choked with weeds, men were lost arrows. Ghosts sang in the doorway of a few desolate houses. Yet now in a day we leap around the earth or explore a thousand Milky Ways. And if the cowherd who lives on a star asks about the god of plagues, tell him, happy or sad, the god is gone, washed away in the waters. July 1, 1958
Whoever will cultivate their own mind will find full employment. Every virtue does not only require great care in the planting, but as much daily solicitude in cherishing as exotic fruits and flowers; the vices and passions (which I am afraid are the natural product of the soil) demand perpetual weeding. Add to this the search after knowledge. . . and the longest life is too short.
I wiped away the weeds and foam, I fetched my sea-born treasures home; But the poor, unsightly, noisome things Had left their beauty on the shore, With the sun and the sand and the wild uproar.
There is a banking adage that if it's growing like a weed, it's a good chance that it's a weed.
The Department of Justice transcends party because we're building on the Weed and Seed program.
Toward seven o'clock every morning, I leave my study and step Out on the bright terrace; the sun already burns resplendent Between the shadows of the fig tree, makes the low wall of coarse Granite warm to the touch. Here my tools lie ready and waiting, Each one an intimate, an ally: the round basket for weeds: The zappetta, the small hoe with a short haft . . . There's a rake here as well, at at times a mattock and spade, Or two watering cans filled with water warmed by the sun. With my basket and small hoe in hand, facing the sun, I Go out for my morning walk.
Pernicious weed! whose scent the fair annoys, Unfriendly to society's chief joys: Thy worst effect is banishing for hours The sex whose presence civilizes ours.
Step by step we see democracy being uprooted like an unwanted weed and the preparation for fascism, for a police state in America. The Congress is largely complicit. The media is supportive. The public is apathetic. By the time apathy is reversed, there may be little opportunity to restore what was lost without massive effort and pain.
When death comes, we take off our clothes and gather everything we left behind: what is dark, broken, touched with shame. When Death demands we give an accounting, naked we present our lives in bundles. See how much these weigh, we tell him, refusing to deny what we have lived. Everything that is touched by light loves the light. We the stubborn-as-grass, we who reel at the taste of sap and want our spirits cleansed, will not betray the weeds, snake, or crippled mare. Never leave behind what the light shone on.
Rastafarianism and reggae music have always kind of resonated with me. Those ideas of redemption, liberation and overcoming oppression through music, weed and community. Fighting evil through love and music, I think it's just a really powerful idea.
As fog moved to the mainland I heard a flock of birds fly over. They sounded like a dress rustling, a dress being unfastened and dropping to the floor. Fog came unpinned like hair. On the beach cliffs, great colonies of datura - jimson weed - with their white trumpet flowers, looked like brass bands.
Weeds grow sometimes very much like flowers, and you can't tell the difference between true and false merely by the shape.
Guilt implanted at a tender age is not easy to destroy. A weed, it sprouts in unexpected places.
Envy is a weed that grows in all soils and climates, and is no less luxuriant in the country than in the court; is not confined to any rank of men or extent of fortune, but rages in the breasts of all degrees.
Beware of flattery! 'tis a flowery weed, Which oft offends the very idol-vice, Whose shrine it would perfume.
That's what I do... Some people smoke weed, some people smoke cigarettes, some people snort coke... I pop pills, I smoke and I drink syrup, that's my twist.
To me, there is spirit in a reed. It's a living thing, a weed, really, and it does contain spirit of a sort. It's really an ancient vibration.
Gardening is like everything else in life, you get out of it as much as you put in. No one can make a garden by buying a few packets of seeds or doing an afternoon's weeding. You must love it, and then your love will be repaid a thousandfold, as every gardener knows.
We are drowning in a sea of Myspace, blather, and too much information. Music is everywhere and nowhere. The independent record store is the solution, a place staffed by friendly (or not) people who are actually paid to weed through this crap and help you find the good stuff.
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