SOMETIMES WHEN I leave my apartment, I forget where I am – you know how that can happen – Polk Street or Paris? But if I'm lucky, a car will nearly hit me as I cross the street, and as it's swerving away, I spot the American flag stuck to the rear window and remember – that's right, I'm in America. Pleased with the knowledge, I continue on my stroll and, when I get to the corner store, make a fast scan of the posters adhered to the window and rediscover that, yes, America is still open for business. This never fails to give me the confidence I need to walk right in and slap down some cash.

Inside I usually share a moment of unspoken hostility with the owner, who's mysteriously had it in for me since day one. He will see me waiting at the counter but won't ring me up unless I stand there silently for three minutes. The TV will be on full blast, and the shriveled windbreaker guys from the AA center upstairs will be huddled around it, sipping peppermint schnapps and shooting the shit. He will merrily light their cigarettes, attentively listen to their sagas, saying over and over, with compassion bleeding from his heart, "Well, you know, what are you gonna do? That's life!" For me, it's just, "Yep."

When he puts the change on the counter, swiftly avoiding my filthy hand, he makes me explain why I need matches for my cigarettes. If I need a bag, he groans, "You need a bag?" Exhausted and repulsed, he licks his thumb, sighs, and bends over to get it, offering an unwelcome glimpse down his crack. The thin plastic bag is always far too small, but you'll never hear a complaint out of me.

The exchange invariably leaves me feeling empty and despondent. If it weren't for the enormous "In God We Trust, United We Stand" billboard that dominates the brick wall to the left of the store, I might lose my motivation to carry on.

With my spirits greatly lifted by the magical words of our forefathers, I then hop toward home and click on the TV the minute I get inside. I like to know what's going on. I light the remains of some crusty joint that some random has left at my house and exhale onto the screen, zoning out over The Price Is Right. That makes me feel greedy, and as always, I make the promise to myself that I will be the one to catch Osama. Osama bin Me. I'll take the $25 million bounty, and fuck it, I'll be able to buy my own weed – exactly 500,000 eighths a month for an entire year, if you can handle that. Like one of my aunts, who claims she coughed up 1,968 bong hits on New Year's Eve 1968, I'm into quantity. This is when I start to get excited.

As usual, the ad that depicts gloved hands packing high-tech bombs and box cutters comes on. "Where do terrorists get their money?" it demands. "If you buy drugs, some of it might come from you." This stretches the limits of my high, but I always come to the conclusion that since I didn't actually buy the doobie scraps I'm huffing, I'm only like a part-time terrorist, which isn't nearly as nuts as going full-time. Besides, if I'm only scamming free pot, I'm not contributing to any Humboldt hippie's napalm and box-cutter stash. Relax, I tell myself. Everything's cool. But later I walk outside, and again, I forget where I am.