We are at the precipice of the “adult book store” for a generation who grew up with Nirvana as make-out music; we the pastel thinkers, we the children of the flannel button-up. In Colorado, legend goes, there’s a medical marijuana dispensary (read: retail outlet) to match every Starbucks in-state serving up burnt cups of coffee. No, you bastards, you aren’t tenderly kissing your beans in any special roasting fashion – you’re burning your swill – get over the emotion of the thing and skip to step five: acceptance that you should’ve gone into barbecue. So there I was, as I usually am, with my eyes off the road and trying to see the insides of one of these dispensaries through the tinted plastic window coverings. I can only imagine that inside they’re burning books, touching children, and playing rock and roll records backwards. They’re like the friendly neighborhood porno shop – the ones that turned the lot of us into twisted monsters, deviants bent on breaking your rules and jaywalking defiantly near your homes. There’s no medicine here, Americans. The retail shops use clever naming and the guise of aiding the suffering in our populations only to one end: to cleave the very fabric of our nation in twain. My pitchfork has been at the door for too long, finally it’s time to get me a splinter or two giving a hippy another asshole.
… 
Plodding to face the bathroom mirror completely in the nude wasn’t the issue, it was the pinch in my right elbow that encouraged me to consider other dimensions in space-time. The routine for years has been an unknowing homage to whatever pasty large Aryan toe heads I share ancestral DNA with, those battle axe people, meat eating warriors with faces stained in chicken fat and blood. I wake up, plod to the bathroom, assault my own dignity with the light switch, then pull-start my day. Last week, like most, began with this new tradition, and when I leaned into the mirror to inspect the surface of my nose, I felt a pinch in my right arm like the sharp kiss of a needle. Nothing was there mind you, but with my brainpan firing on only a select few pins, the first semi-cohesive thought wasn’t, “Oh, must be one of those… things,” or even to simply ignore the sensation. Instead, I looked into the mirror, and decided that another version of myself was looking back at me from inside of another dimension – and now we can share sensations. The bastard had finally perfected the technology! I knew I (we) would! But lo, he communicates by pinching his (our) arm. Why not open a wormhole? Why not vaporize the shampoo bottle with a nano-chemical eyeball laser? I briefly consider shaving a message to him into my chest. …
I can sense it. I know what you’re about to think – and you’ve every right. You’re thinking that either A.) I’ve got an obsession with Merlin Mann’s west-coast hipster ideals, B.) who in the hell is Merlin Mann?, or C.) 
the creepy Valentine card I sent you last year needed less hair in it. Well, A.) You’re right, but I’ve got a good reason for once, B.) he’s an internet guy, from the internet, and C.) maybe if you stopped refusing the boiled animal skulls I send to your office we could talk like adults. I send them to make you love me. Merlin’s public speaking caught on video tape has again struck one of my many misaligned and devilishly harmonious job-related chords. This time, it’s just after my 30th birthday wherein I nearly decided to catch a flight right out of the digital realm entirely and fit myself with a life of growing carrots, wearing robes, and chanting mysterious somethings in a mysterious mountain somewhere… mysterious. Adding to that – after reading (or listening) to this article you’ll understand why he’s really on to something a little more special than his favorite Death Cab tune or a Flickr gallery of funny beards. He’s about to enlighten you, and this is why he and I will be best friends forever and go to each other’s birthday parties and have adventures in a hot air balloon with our robotic monkey sidekick – “Professor Robonanas.” …