Repost from old blog, 3/20/08I was 16? 17? It was late fall and I was in my junior year of high school. My older brother, who I was close with at the time, had been smoking weed forever, and I’d been curious to try it. One weekend he arranged to get me high. After school on Friday I borrowed my parents’s car and drove into the city. He attended college there and lived in a cruddy little off-campus apartment with his roommate Chris.
He’d purchased some high-quality pot, beautiful green-white buds that he stored in a jar in the cupboard for my arrival. Also he’d bought some papers soaked in hash oil, but those came later.
The three of us – me, my brother, and Chris – piled into the bathroom and took hits out of a bowl, I think. I coughed a lot, to where I actually thought I was going to puke.
Afterwards we were standing in the kitchen; Chris was talking and I noticed things getting weird. Time seemed drawn out.
Chris had to pick up his girlfriend at the airport, so we all got into my parents’s car and drove there. I sat in the back. My jaw felt like it was opening on its own, some muscle memory opening my mouth, and I kept having to close it. I articulated this to them; Chris said he knew what I meant. We got to the airport and I went inside with Chris. I’d never been inside the Pittsburgh airport and it kind of blew my mind. It looked so futuristic and modern.
After this my memory is hazy. We went back to their apartment. My brother and I watched “A Thief in the Night” and smoked the hash-oil joints. I remember moments of the film sticking out at me like the most absurd and hilarious things I’d ever seen. We would rewind it and watch it over again and laugh our asses off. Then the movie was over, and it was like I hadn’t even seen it. Time was all fucked up. I didn’t want to smoke anymore. I wanted to be normal again.
Weed was never very good to me.