Being an "esoteric" (read: socially maladjusted) person shopping for narcotics is a really trying experience at times. You'd think pot stores would be pretty lax, and they are usually, but given the damn MAN breathing down their necks they stumble. (Not a graceful, recovery stumble, btw, we're talking sinkhole-level uproar)
The Tokyo Smoke environment (Of which I now aim to wean fro) demanded of me a sick, uncanny "I'm not red-light high, just a little slow" performance. Where the aggressively streamlined bionic phalanges of the government buffer, the soul, the heart, the HUMANITY of Forever Buds out-fibres any internet.
TLDR the guy on cash was the friendliest guy ever. the machine did not give me an option to tip, and this is the only drug purchase for which I've felt compelled to
Give him a raise
Love you.
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