Updated: Apr 20
These days with themes are super convenient for blog writers. You don’t have to worry about your topic. It just flows. Four twenty time. Happy Wednesday. Happy hump day. Happy, happy, joy, joy.
I was always fascinated by marijuana growing up. I was aware of it for as long as I can remember, and it was one of my favorite smells from the time I was little. Yes, parental units, I knew what was going on and I liked what I was smelling. I also knew I was not supposed to act like I was paying as much attention as I was.
I’m not sure what age I was when I figured out where the stashes were at home or at my mom’s house. I liked looking at them for a long time before I ever tried it myself. I think I had picked up that it probably wasn’t the best thing for really young people to do.
I remember the child molester, Doug, who lived next door to my grandparents. If you’ve been following along, you know who I am talking about. He was three years older than I was and at some point, when he was in 7th or 8th grade, he made a pipe in shop at Madison Meadows. He showed it to me and said it was for smoking grass. Then one day, he literally put grass in it from the front yard of his house and smoked it.
I thought, “What an idiot.” Even a fourth or fifth grader like me knew you did not put actual grass in a pipe and smoke it. When he offered it to me, I politely declined. I wasn’t there yet. This was after he asked me if I wanted to suck dicks, so I was leery of him for a long time. I wish I had told people about this all before this blog, but what can you do?
Anyhow, I don’t want to go down that path today.
Eventually, when I was in junior high school, I stole some of the weed that was laying out at a party at my mom’s house. It was probably a gram or so, and all shake, and I had it in a piece of plain white paper I used to type on with my old, blue typewriter. I held onto that wadded up piece of paper for a couple of days before I lost my nerve and flushed it.
Early in my freshman year of high school, I found my nerve. I’ve touched on this before, so my dad knows a bit about this, but it is time, I suppose, to spill the beans. I still had my sense of smell, so I was careful not to some in the house. The first time I tried the demon weed, I was ditching school. I snagged a little of my dad’s stash and went out in the garage and smoked it for the first time. I remember thinking that video games were a lot more interesting that day.
From that point forward, I snagged a little here and there when I wanted to get high, and the ball just sort of rolled from there. My friends were happy that I was “borrowing” because it was easy for me to share. By the time I was a junior, I was a seasoned stoner. I remember my last birthday dinner while living at my dad’s house. My friend, Bill, had given me a ride home after school and since it was my birthday, he shared some hash with me.
Holy Moley was I high. It was the first time I’d ever had hash and my mind was a bit blown. When I remembered that Gramma and Grandpa Reardon were coming over for dinner, I had a mini-heart attack, but Bill just said, “Breathe. It’s your birthday. They’ll just think you are excited about that.” It helped. I was getting my favorite meal, pork chops, and I ate a ton of them. I can remember Gramma saying that I must be really hungry and just laughing my ass off on the inside. Sorry, Gramma.
At this point, too, I had lost the ability to smell so I never knew if I reeked of weed or not. I’m sure I did, plenty of times, but I don’t remember getting called out on it very often. It was one of those don’t ask, don’t tell situations, although my mom would sometimes call me on it. By the time I moved in with her, I wasn’t doing much to hide it anymore. I wasn’t smoking out in my room, but I wasn’t above smoking a joint on the way home from school or heading up to Easy Street with the munchies.
Eventually I figured out how to smoke relatively inexpensively by buying an ounce or more at a time and selling it off to my friends. I never took any unnecessary risks, except with my own psyche. By the time I was 21, I had developed a nasty and expensive weed habit. People who say that marijuana isn’t addictive are both right and wrong.
For where I was at in those days, I was psychologically addicted to the act of smoking pot. It wasn’t a physical addiction, but it was a crutch I leaned on at an early age. Even though I wasn’t technically paying for it, I was certainly not seeing the type of profits I could have if I didn’t smoke it at all. By the time 1992 rolled around, I was to the point where I knew I had to make a change and cut it out of my life for six years.
For the first few years of that, I didn’t like to be around it at all. I had to seriously talk myself out of joining back in and smoking out. After a while, my views changed on it and I picked it up again. Today, it’s so potent and so good, I enjoy being a cheap date. I can’t imagine ever going back to smoking it the way we did in the 80s, but a little bit here and there is very helpful for everyday aches and pains and sleeping. I’m glad it’s legal, too. If anything, alcohol should be way harder to get than marijuana. It’s way more dangerous.
I’ve got many more of these stories to tell. Happy 420!
See you tomorrow.
Intellivision's Night Stalker. This was pretty fun if you were high.