Since my horn-removal procedure, the pain has lessened with each weed-induced passing day. But even now, a full week later, I can't laugh without a sharp pain shooting across my scar. With each outburst it feels like I'm going to pop a stitch. It's kind of like how Harry Potter reaches for his scar when Voldemordt comes around, except it's humor for me, which is my favorite thing aside from weed...painfully ironic (in more ways than one). I get my stitches out next week but until then I'll be attempting to restrain my facial expressions and laughter.

Whenever I tell people I drive for Dominos, they tell me to be safe. Like obviously, what else would I be doing? But recently, my friend who got me the job got his car stolen when out for delivery. It sounds bad, but what type of idiot leaves his new car running outside of a gas station on Main Street at 10 p.m. in Longmont, Colorado — an area where homeless people crossing the street with their grocery carts of possessions is as common as a squirrel running in front of your car. He got it back after all, but said it still smells like sweaty feet. He also got fired from Dominos, and had to pay them back for the money that got stollen. A real lose-lose all around.

I made $110 in tips last night. The highlight was when a white dude in a dirty white t-shirt came in to pick up his friend's pizza. I saw his crazy eyes and scattered tongue and knew this would be a fun conversation. He asked about my tattoo (the typical pick up line now), and told me his name was Cobain. His mama named him after the legend, he said. What I do for a living he asks. I write, I tell him. What does he do? This is where it goes downhill. "I steal people's faces," Cobain says with a crooked smile. I ask what that means. "You ever dropped acid?" he whispers. I nod. "You ever done it without knowing?" he asks. "No," I say back, trying not to make eye contact. "I put it on their tongue and steal their faces," Cobain says as he makes a hand with his motion like he was putting some change in his jeans pocket. My horn started hurting and I knew it wasn't from the humor, it was from Voldemordt.