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i love my weed

I love the weed
Now they comming from baton rouge
Now they going to santa cruz
They trust on deyabu
Chicks smoking the weed

Weed weed I love weed you and
I will smoke plenty of the weed
Raise your hand if you love weed
I I love the weed
I love the weed
Listen to the reggae song
Smoke my weed up in my bong
Take the weed dont get me wrong

Weed weed I love weed I love weed
Weed weed I love weed I love the weed
The founding father smoked the weed
The founding father plant the weed
The founding father plant the seed
They all smoke the uh uh uh

Weed weed I love weed I love weed
Weed weed love weed I love the weed
I love the weed
I love the weed
I love the
Mouse has just smoke his stach
Thank you very much
Yes, I love my weed
Ja ja ja
Weed song. Uhuhuh

Kids dont try it at home, ja ja ja
leave your parents smoke alone.
yeah yeah yeah yeah, talking about the green
indoor, outdoor same green.
I I love the weed.

now they comming from baton rouge
now they going to Santa Cruz
they trust on deyabu
chicks smoking the weed

I I I I I I I I love the weed

yes we are in califonia the place where we plant the indica
proposition 2 15 its a medical need
you call it marihuana in jamaica we call it ganja,
listen to the ganja song I gotta smoke my bong

Сорняк сорняк Я люблю траву я я я я я люблю сорняк
сорняк сорняком Я люблю траву да я люблю де сорняк

This article is from the March 17, 2021, issue of Flip the Script, a weekly newsletter moving you from climate stress to clean energy action. Sign up here to get it in your inbox (and share the link with a friend).

Five hours spent repairing a machine that is suppose to make my life easier. Five hours that I could’ve spent watching the game, or fixing that sink leak I’d been meaning to get to, or playing with my daughters. Five hours wasted.

Tamed by the beast

It used to be the pull cord for a weed eater. For years, it would faithfully listen to my grunts and curses as I abused it, struggling to start it up again after a long winter. It would wait patiently as I mixed my two-cycle gas like a chemist in a lab, primed the carburetor with the rubber squeeze bulb, and opened the choke. Then I would aggressively yank that cord like it had slighted me.

The broken cord just hung there, yellowed with age and not sure of what to do or what to be. This particular cord had held for seven years and had served its purpose well—until this balmy July afternoon.

These problems are decades old. It’s 2018. There’s got to be a better way of doing things by now.