I don’t smoke. Ugh. I wish I was saying that sentence like I should be slowly taking my sunglasses off in a retro D.A.R.E. commercial – but no. I’m saying that first sentence quietly, mumbling, hoping that people don’t really hear or comprehend what I’m saying.
Let’s cut right down to it, teenz – smoking weed is cool. Hot guys smoke. Hot girls smoke. Even some non-hots smoke (so I’ve heard). What unites all people who smoke is the fact that they’re cool, and low-key rebellious, and high-key think I talk like a narc—which I’m totally not by the way. So, uh… who here does pot?
But seriously – smoking weed is so devastatingly on-brand for me, that I still have to partake in this holiday. So, in the spirit of Kushmas (Siri: is this what Jared Kushner calls Christmas), I want to take this opportunity to tell you about the one time that I did participate in 4/20.
Smash cut to college. Florida State University. The air is thick and the shorts are short (hahaha does this sound like a soap opera yet – awesome).
My cool sorority friends are all so *stoked* for 4/20, because they’re cool, and in a sorority, and don’t get freakishly paranoid (or constantly think they’re peeing their pants) when they’re high, so obviously they smoke.
I, on the other hand, am not stoked for 4/20, but I still haven’t abandoned hope that I could one day be a hella cool chill girl who can handle some Mary Jane.
A few of us are at my friend’s apartment, and we just start passing around the blongs. (Blunts? Bongs? Literally no fackin’ clue, you guys.) I take the smallest of small hits of the blang (Is blang the right word? Blang is definitely the right word.) I cannot overemphasize how small this hit was. It was like when you’re awkwardly standing alone at a bar so you pretend to take a small sip of your drink just to do something with yourself, like that’s how small my mouth movement was. Nearly undetectable by the human eye.
But, alas, I had no idea what being high felt like, so based on all my non-existent evidence – I thought I was high, dude.
I knew two things about being high. One—you sit in a circle and tell funny stories about each other like That ‘70s Show. And two—the munchies.
My friends prepared for this second condition. We ordered pizzas. We made dips. We baked cookies. We had hot dogs. And I, thinking I was high and that this was high protocol… Ate. It. All.
The hit that I took from the blang was probably 0.03 seconds, and the amount I spent eating was probably 3.00 hours – so that proportion is definitely, wildly off. But, hey, it was 4/20, bro-sé Cuervos, and I was spending it with my chill hot smoker friends.
Cut to a few hours later—I’m in bed, fast asleep – most likely dreaming about Justin Timberlake kissing me on the mouth, but hey, who’s to say. Suddenly, someone throat-punches me in the stomach (okay, obviously you can’t throat-punch someone in the stomach but it was the only word I could think of to describe the misery of this punch, okay?!). I jolt awake, and, upon realizing that nobody actually punched me, sprint full-force to the bathroom.
There was diarrhea. Everywhere. I know I say “literally” a lot, but I truly am using it correctly right now—I literally exploded.
It was all there—the pizza, the cookies, the hot dogs. The amount of calories I consumed earlier that night was basically like the value of pi but without any decimal point—just an endless, infinite number. I started crying. Why was my body betraying me?! Why was this happening to me—a totally chill smoker gurl?!
The next morning, I felt embarrassed. I felt ashamed. I felt like I definitely lost six pounds. It would be so poetic to say “it was at that moment that I realized, hey, smoking’s not for me :-)” But sadly, it took a few more failed attempts to really drill that point home.
If there’s a moral here, it’s this – don’t try to be something you’re not, okay? Celebrate today responsibly – and don’t forget, to always pass that em-effing blong, my bro-tini’s.
Real Photographic Evidence (April 2011)
