Mary Mota

My new pot dealer, Mary, is now selling hash! (She is, of course, continuing to offer her kind, green bud as well. She's so cool. She rides around on her bicycle delivering shit. I think she might be nutz (not 'cause of the bicycle, per se, but just generally (well, actually, the bike often does factor heavily into her weirdness (either the gears aren't working just right or she fell off of it and hit her head ("...good thing I was wearin' my helmet...brains woulda been like chili on the street...ha, ha, Bloody Mary!") or she's asking me if I "think the law sez [she's] gotta carry [her] bike light around even during the day so that [she's], like, ready for the night when it comes?" or some such shit))).

Another weird thing is that it seems like there's always some sort of a pig (OPD, BPD, BART, whatever) who just happens to be stationed right there or who's driving by or poking around or whatever whenever and wherever Mary and I meet up; we often have to wait a couple minutes or else we have to walk around a corner or something in order to do our bizness. (At first she kept suggesting that maybe all the pigs had something to do with me (and I kept arguing that there's just too many pigs around, that's all, and that neither of us was a narc (while simultaneously intimating that, for all that I knew, it was she who was the narc)), but by now we've pretty much learned to accept it as coincidence. It is weird, though.)) Hash!