Smoking weed is a rather popular pastime for kids my age. But no matter how many times my friends say marijuana will “enlighten” me, I just. never. get it. If I wanted to smell like incense and BO, I would have joined the ultimate Frisbee team. Or moved to San Francisco.
Now, I’m not one to judge anyone on his behavior, but I’d like to understand why people choose this while I choose the drugging effects of bad TV. Maybe they’d like to think they’re “inspired” while I accept that I’m killing brain cells. And I don’t need an herb to feel lazy and hungry: my mere existence confirms that. Frankly, I’d rather pay Time Warner than a dealer. I guess we all have our weaknesses. But be warned: the next time I catch you lighting up on Ludlow Street, I’ll call the cops myself.
If literary history has taught us anything, it’s that good writers drink, bad ones smoke. I can’t comment on my writing, but I do prefer the sauce.