Getting High Off Your Hobby
I first smoked weed in college, along with maybe half or more of my contemporaries. If memory serves, it was barely more than 24 hours after I moved into my tiny dorm room and unpacked my duffel bag. Paul, my best friend from high school, new college roommate, and partner in crime, was also a marijuana virgin. He scored a couple of joints the day after move-in, and we decided to take the illicit plunge that evening. We weren’t totally naïve. We’d both attended parties where, in cross-legged circles on the floor, joints were passed around amongst friends. But Paul and I always graciously opted not to partake and were never pressured. My hesitance was fear-based: fear of the law, of being stigmatized, of my parents, of altering my brain chemistry and DNA. Besides, I wasn’t the type of kid who did bad things like drugs—especially when authorities were saying weed was a gateway to ruinous addictions. Paul and I didn’t need to get high to get paranoid. When the time came to light up, …



