Elson Anderling inhaled deeply on the joint and contemplated his existence. And the existences of those around him. Elson decided that he would never accomplish anything of any value. He knew that he had it in him to succeed, but where? His potential for success was packed away in some dusty, cobweb-ridden corner of the vast attic of his mind. And to top it all off, Elson was crazy. Not just slightly nutty, he was fucking neurotic. He knew that he was a genius of a remarkable degree, but none of his genius was practical. And thus no one appreciated it. They saw him as poor little neurotic Elson Anderling, the weirdo druggie who would never do anything but shit and fall back into it.
	He looked at his friends. Assholes, imbeciles, pseudo-intellectuals, dipshits, sluts. No real virtue or any types of admirable qualities to be seen. But Elson digressed. What was virtue, anyway? Virtue, Elson thought, was in the power of choice. The choice between good and evil, right and wrong, meaningful and pointless. Can someone be virtuous who has only done right by default? Who has only done right because it was a habit to do so? Elson thought not. Virtue was the quality possessed by a person who has made the right choice. Moreover, Elson thought there must be virtue in taking the wrong path, for all wisdom is compounded of knowledge and experience. Most "virtuous" people, Elson reasoned, were not wise. They had no knowledge of evil.
	Elson had experienced evil. He had taken every so-called "wrong" path life had offered him. He had "given in" to every indulgence that had caught his fancy. And though it didn't make him a "good" person, he certainly belived it made him a wise person. Unlike those around him, who lived primarily for fun.
	Elson lived for wisdom. He looked at his friends and heaved a sigh. He did not hate his friends. They were, after all, his friends. And it was not custom for people to hate their friends. But he did feel a distinct disgust and disdain toward them. Granted, no one was perfect. But Elson felt that he came closer to perfection than most of the people he knew.
	Meanwhile the joint had circumnavigated the room. Elson took it and inhaled thoughtfully. He smoked pot to gain wisdom. He did not like the high it gave. Pot affected him differently than it did most others. Everyone else became increasingly silly and happy-go-lucky. They not only enjoyed everything; they enjoyed everything to a rediculous degree. Pot made Elson hate everything. Perhaps he was an alien. That would explain a lot of things. Unfortunately, Elson Anderling knew that he was not an alien, and that a lot of things would never be explained.