Dear Harvard students and affiliates,

 

This afternoon at 4:20 PM, two thousand students across the globe are being total tightwads because of their acceptance to the world's most prestigious university. Many of their friends will take them aside and tell them they're fucking try-hards, that "HEB 1323: The Science and History of Alcohol" is not practice-based, that Falafel Corner will ban you the first time you use the shawarma rotisserie as a microphone to sing Steve Martin's "King Tut" just because you accidentally stab one cashier.

 

Remember that feeling?

 

Those hundreds of students will dance, laugh, scream, and make frantic phone calls for hours. And then their friends will get them as stoned as an Iron Age adulterer so that they quit being stuck-up.

 

I was that high once. In fact, many times, because no matter how unlikely it may have seemed last month, spring has finally sprung. And by spring I mean “my sick fuckin’ stash,” and by sprung I mean “been used to hotbox the tits off of Morton Prince House for the entirety of this past week.”

 

That’s right, binches, Tommy D is back and better than Ezra, Ezra being this Comp Lit postdoc chode I puked on the other day at Darwin’s all-you-can-smugly-sip spiked cold brew buffet. As a result, I would like to remind all Harvard affiliates that it can always be 4:20 o’clock if you take the time to realize what is in front of you, namely a blunt so fat it belongs in a medieval candlemaker's ingredients cupboard.

 

“But Tommy D,” you whiningly ask in a tone befitting a specialist in Polish and Czech translations of contemporary fiction. “Whence this new surfeit of swag? The last we heard, your boy Skeech was off at Southern Methodist getting his Master's in Video Game Design, and you were on a one-way train to Lamesville, population Jay Harris except for that one Simchat Torah party.”

 

All I can say in response is that, no matter how hard life might feel, how much your various stressers might get you down, sometimes a certain interface-designing Iscariot gets banned from the state of Texas for performing unspeakable acts on a statue of LBJ, and you can once again rest easy, easy being an acronym for "every afternoon stoned #YOLO."

 

Remind yourself: weed is legal here now. Enjoy it. And then ask around, "Fuck, does anybody have a light?"