I’ve been using cannabis since the final week of my 13th year. I was actually the last of my inner circle to try it. One day two of my best (only) friends came into school acting goofier than usual. I asked them what they had been up to and sure enough, they had both just finished getting high for the first time. This terrified me. I was barely getting used to my newly grown body hair, while other kids my age were already engaging in the use of illegal substances. With my anti-drug propaganda filled mind and the D.A.R.E acronym still apart of my moral code, I looked down upon my friends. I told them that they were stupid and that smoking pot was stupid. Little did I know, I had no idea what I was talking about. After more thought on the subject, it hit me. What the hell did I know? Up to that point, I had spent the majority of my life wetting the bed. Who am I make judgments on something I’ve never tried, let alone other peoples lives? So I took off my D.A.R.E t-shirt for the last time and told my friends that I was interested in trying that weed nonsense they had been raving about. So we threw a sleepover at my place and snuck out of the house at around two in the morning. We walked to an empty tall-grassed field in my neighborhood and sat in the middle of it. We all agreed that if a car passed by, we would lay on our backs until the coast was clear.
We loaded a fat bowl of this brown, low quality marijuana (the kind I would most likely sell to a group of 8th graders) and I watched my friends pass the pipe down the line and wheeze away due to their pre-pubescent lungs underestimating the harshness of the smoke. Alas, it was I, the rookie’s turn to scrape my mother’s threatening lectures from the back of my mind. I inhaled through my lungs just as I was told. Terrified, I blew it out immediately and fell into a frenzy of what sounded like malaria induced coughs and dry heaves until I actually regurgitated my cherry Mountain...
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