This may come as a surprise, but back in high school, I had something of a stoner reputation.
School administrators were always trying to catch me smoking weed in the bathrooms (there were some close calls). Teachers were able to infer from the fact that they spent most classes staring at the top of my head while I drooled all over the desk in an unconscious state that I was definitely on something. Classmates knew that if they showed up to my assigned parking space before school began they’d find me smoking weed in my car and happy to share. Sometimes they brought me gifts, like a cool corncob pipe, which became my dedicated car piece for a while.
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Once, a classmate who had decided she was done with pot asked me if I wanted the rest of her stash, referring to it as “fire.” Not wanting to be wasteful, I said sure, and to my schwag-weed-smoking surprise, she handed me a bag of what was then referred to as “kind” bud, light in color and absolutely sparkling in the sunlight, a far cry from the dreck to which I was