Editor's note: I probably should have had a joint before this. But I didn't, and I can't turn back the hands of time. Also, this is the first blog post I've ever written about anything, so be gentle.
As a teenager growing up in the middle of the canadian prairies a while ago, I was raised to believe that weed kills. As part of a drug-free world, cannabis was the gateway drug to a life of abuse, addiction, poverty, depression, and death. And I believed all of it. Terrified to even speak its name around my family, the thought of taking a rip off of a bong or a cored-out apple at a bush party in the middle of nowhere scared the shit out of me.
And then, I caved. Around the first time I stole booze from my parents' basement stash, I went to a party that was basically a Wiz Khalifa concert. I was legitimately too naive to figure out how the hell all these kids got weed. But that's not the point. Eventually, someone hands a bong to me and suggests I try to take a rip from it. As the lighter hit the chamber, I had no fucking clue what to do, so I tilted the bong towards me as I inhaled, drinking what felt like a gallon of bongwater along the way.
Let me tell you, that was maybe the dumbest thing I've ever done in a long list of dumb acts I've committed so far in my life. After about 45 minutes of throwing my entire life up, I felt gross. Like the hands of karma were giving me my comeuppance for tempting fate the way I did. The invisible hand told me that what I was doing was wrong, so I decided then and there to swear off of weed.
And that devout approach to a smokeless life stuck for a long, long, long time.
That's it for now, but the next time you see one of these articles, it'll be about the first time I took an edible and what I learned from that. Probably.