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I need a stoner girlfriend too. I remember my last stoner girlfriend - oh, how I miss her. She hurled her stones in a perfect arc, while I'd stand looking on admiringly, in awe that I'd ever met such a wonderful stoner. I'd watch as the rock made its connection with a terrifying crack and a shower of red blood. In her accuracy, my stoner girl was humane. She would put them out of their misery with one well-aimed throw.

Throwing stones just isn't as much fun by myself. The flecks of saliva that fly from the mouths of strange stoners are somehow never as sweet as the silvery beads glistening in the corners of your very own stoner girl's lips. The press of the crowds were an excuse to press myself up against her. I remember how she would smile and say, "hand me another rock, it's party time."

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