[ WP ] President Obama has accomplished everything he set out to do as president . Now all he wants to do is smoke a blunt .

The Presidents fingers were gliding over the smooth timber of the British Arctic exploration ship `` Resolute'' of which his desk was build. Not a single scratch, no mark on it. Had it ever been damaged and if, who were the master craftsmen that would haven been allowed to fix it? Who was even in charge of deciding that? Eight years and yet there was so much he didnt know, things he knew he would never know. 
 His hands still on the table, his mind pondered over all the other desks he had had. From his first own desk, still a child, to artful school desks and his used and scratched college desk that he had carried alone up to his first apartment. Oh how much those desks had tought him. And how much stress they had caused him. 
 Fuck, back in the day his desk was never this clean. Always atleast a speck of weed under piles of whatever. How long ago was that, how much of that boy was still in him? Back then he wasnt just a weed smoker, he was a connoisseur. What can you do when you grow up on Maui Waui? His fingers still resting, missed the mindless routine of rolling a work of art. Others rolled fatties, he rolled masterpieces that for so long marked the high points of his achievments, that he couldnt help but grin at the thought while sitting silent in history. 
 Today was to be his last day at the office and it was to be a special day. With utmost discretion he had given out oders, carefully choosing the one person to receive and bring him a single package from his oldest friend. He had choosen a man that he could destroy at an instant, politics had tought him that much. And today his package came. Pale and sweaty entered the room and placed it on his table. He didnt look up and after a few seconds he gave the hint of a nod, so pale and sweaty left sweating slightly less. 
 He almost hadnt moved but now he moved swiftly. His left hand snatching his fathers knife out of his 2000 $ suit and slicing the box open in one motion. He hesitated for a minute, was it real? Could he really smell it already? He took out all that he needed, smiling because it was all there. His first grinder, made of wood that he bought together with his best friend so long ago that he actually couldnt remember when. A postcard from hawaii that he would fold to hold his precious, without fingerprints but with a friendly big smiley on the back. A single piece of tip paper and a single piece of the finest cigar shell. Vacuum sealed and triple wraped was the finest weed hawaii had to offer. He and his childhood friend called it Kameāloha and it came from an elderly woman who lived just a few blocks from his childhood home. 
 `` Green Granny'' or Ms. Kameāloha had arthritis and thankfully her family has kept the genetics of some very good medicine preserved for generations. She did not sell much and not to just anyone but by some sheer luck and through who knows how many hands it was the first weed he had ever tried and for years they searched for the source like a mystical legend. It was years before they found her and when they did he only had a few weeks left on the island. Those were the days, some of the happiest he had ever had. 
 While still reminiscing the journey that finding her was, he found himself holding the peferct blunt. Was he high already? he could not recall having rolled it. Yet here it was, green, brown, round and perfet. The table, Ms. Kameāloha, the memories of her cookies and her weed, all of that it seemed had made him high without even smoking. He laughed, inched his chair back and put his feet up. Nobody was allowed near his office, he felt comfortable turning Lamar on loud and with 10 white agents having his back, he lit up...
