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I'm a fairly active charter member
of Connecticut's Medical Marijuana Program,
qualifying because I'm also one of the oldest HIV+ survivors in the U.S.

In fact, 
not a single cell within my entire organism
would have been brought to you today
without the miracles of chemistry.
So blame Big Pharma,
you would not be the first
but perhaps might become the last.
You never know,
you could get lucky.
Find a bottom-line its all about me corporation
prepared to listen to people
as if we might become cooperative advocates for healthier climates,
rather than mere consumers of pathological therapies.

Anyway, I've been sick off and on,
mostly on,
since the beginning of November
so I've also been pretty much stoned.

Unfortunately, or fortunately, I'm not sure
Probably both.
I'm also probably the oldest HIV+ Taoist survivor
and Taoists always have to pretend both sides of the mirror
might have worthwhile reflective potential.
WuWei quasi-fortunately,
rather than being too sick with respiratory issues to get stoned,
I'm too stoned to remember I'm sick.

Despite being retired,
I don't have time to be sick anyway,
in large part because my youngest of four kids
is a girl with wicked Oppositional Defiant Disorder;
a label she defies.
Not because she's opposed to labels,
but because she thinks she is perfectly ordered
as the rest of us losers might better get with her program.

She likes President Trump
because he looks and sounds familiar enough to eat,
as prehensile grabby economic and political leaders
were originally meant to be eaten.

For my young teenage daughter,
ODD is not a disorder,
it is a religion
into which she was baptized
by Fetal Alcohol Full Immersion
at a fairly first trimester young embryonic age.

From her I have learned
there fortunately is no wimpy God,
but we do have one hell of a fire-breathing feminist Goddess
when we refuse to help her clean her nightmare 
she calls her WhiteHouse,
but I call her bedroom.

I tried to point out the inconsistency
of supporting a President
who also refuses to help us clean our planet,
or even avoid mutually terrorizing ballistic destruction,
but this, apparently, is the voice of a wimpy God
who does not,
or should not,
keep  on talking to the Fire Goddess hand.

This morning I was helping her get ready for school,
combing out her spiky hair.
She's part AfricanAmerican porcupine.
We were standing in front of a large wood-framed, beveled mirror
that looks, perhaps only because I'm stoned,
like something out of Snow White
associated with her StepMom,
the witchy queen with Oppositional Defiant Disorder.

My daughter loves Snow White,
probably because she bossed around the seven dwarfs
in their own home,
(a politically incorrect position I do not recommend you ever even think of trying to get away with)
and forced them to listen to her own crappy music preferences
at a full amphitheater range of ear-splitting volume.

Be that as it too loudly may,
I asked her if she ever talks to her mirror,
asking, Who is the fairest of them all?

Yes.

And, does the mirror talk back?

Yes. It says,
You need to clean your WhiteHouse!

That's strange.
My mirror has been saying the same thing
ever since early November.
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