A sample bit of text from The Situation
As he walks up the hillside towards the avenue, Weed surveys the majestic rows of eucalyptus trees that frame the road, the forest of poplars through which the sun beams angelic rays of sunlight. He remembers how they helped the night before: the way they stood like tall shadows and sort of guard-railed Chris as he drove along the unlit roads in the dark. The lights against the distinctive trunks were all that marked the edges of the treacherous, winding highway with their steep ditches. Weed was raised among these wooded areas, within this sleepy village and its outlying spread of homes. The bucolic surroundings recall a time when he was better known as Bryan versus Weed. That was his first decade and a half, roughly. The nickname didn’t stick until his latter years of high school, for reasons that strike most people as obvious, though privately, Weed has always known that his nickname has layered meanings. After all, even Weed’s parents slip from time to time and use the term. They have no objection to marijuana, the presumed association—far from it. In fact, they’d once been modest growers of pot, as many are in West Marin. Regardless, Weed gathers that his parents took to the nickname not because of its drug connotations, but rather because they thought it fit him, as in naturally.