The Marijuana Blog Post

Pot, skunk, mull, weed, green; whatever - you get the picture.  When I first met Marijuana she was a beguiling mystery - today I know her as a broken-down whore.  From the dizzying teen highs of summer bushwalking to the cold and lonely Tuesday-morning-whacked - I have done pot to death just like alcohol.  Now, we have a long distance relationship - if we bump into each other at a party, we are polite, but we don't swap numbers.

Growing up marijuana was on the periphery of my circle - I was always in the top class and busily reading and wasn't really exposed to the drug dudes.  So when my sister moved in with a pot smoker, I went around for a smoke.  I was sixteen.

It was a bright and airy upstairs flat with high ceilings in the middle of town.  We took turns having bongs.  We whispered and were polite and inhaled and lay back on the bean bags and time stood still.  Then we cracked up into girlish giggling until our stomachs hurt.  It was like looking at the world through a quirky, nonsense lens.

Imperceptibly, I began making adjustments to my life so I could have more access to pot, or have somewhere to smoke it once I had it, and just as gently, I moved away from those who did not do it, and towards those who did.