I appreciate you sharing the reek of cheap ganja with anyone who enters my apartment. Showering to the smell of stale bong water invigorates my soul. Watching your morning fog on its miasmatic creep from the bathroom into the hall, then from the hall into my office, is the highlight of my day. You have a kind heart.
However, I find the material I produce in the wake of your morning ablution decidedly subpar. This morning I transcribed a passage from Herbert Spencer's Psychology thus: "Every form of Intelligence being, in essence, an adjustmust of inner to outer relations; it results that as, in the advance of this adjustmust, the outer relations increase number, in complexity, in heterogeneity, by degrees that cannot be marked." Granted, in terms of Lamarckian adaptation, the neologism "adjustmust" has some traction: individuals who "adjustmaybe" are less likely to survive than the "adjustmusters" who crane their necks for the next highest leaf.
But I digress. (I do that a lot lately.) I know what you're thinking: "Dude. Just 'cause you see my smokes in your place don't mean you score a contact high. Seriously." Perhaps. You do know about those scientific studies of scent and cognitive function, right? The ones saying strong scents like peppermint work as mnemonics, and that you remember what you were thinking when you first smelt those smells? Because let me tell you:
The crap my brain excavates every time you pump my place full of your noxious weed ain't exactly helping me finish my dissertation. Quite the opposite. It would be awesome if you could do your business in some room not connected to any of mine. If you must—if it's bathroom or bust—maybe not toke so early in the morning or keep it up for quite so long. You have work to do, and I'm sure the shirts you smoke don't help so much.
Make an adjustmust.
All will be cool.