Uh oh. It’s 4/20, y’all — time to b l a z e it, my bro-seph Gordon-Levitts. Ooohhhh yeah. That sweet, sweet kush. Alright, now that I’m hella lit, it’s time to get something off my chest.
I don’t smoke. Ugh. I wish I was saying that sentence like I should be slowly taking my sunglasses off in a retro D.A.R.E. commercial — but no. I’m saying that first sentence quietly, mumbling, hoping that people don’t really hear or comprehend what I’m saying.
Let’s cut right down to it, teenz — smoking weed is cool. Hot guys smoke. Hot girls smoke. Even some non-hots smoke (so I’ve heard). What unites all people who smoke is the fact that they’re cool, and low-key rebellious, and high-key think I talk like a narc — which I’m totally not by the way. So, uh… who here does pot?
But seriously — smoking weed is so devastatingly on-brand for me, that I still have to partake in this holiday. So, in the spirit of Kushmas (Siri: is this what Jared Kushner calls Christmas), I want to take this opportunity to tell you about the one time that I did participate in 4/20.
Smash cut to college. Florida State University. The air is thick and the shorts are short (hahaha does this sound like a soap opera yet — awesome).
My cool sorority friends are all so *stoked* for 4/20, because they’re cool, and in a sorority, and don’t get freakishly paranoid (or constantly think they’re peeing their pants) when they’re high, so obviously they smoke.
I, on the other hand, am not stoked for 4/20, but I still haven’t abandoned hope that I could one day be a hella cool chill girl who can handle some Mary Jane.
A few of us are at my friend’s apartment, and we just start passing around the blongs. (Blunts? Bongs? Literally no fackin’ clue, you guys.) I take the smallest of small hits of the blang (Is blang the right word? Blang is definitely the right word.) I cannot overemphasize how small this hit was. It was like when you’re awkwardly standing alone at a bar so you pretend to take a small sip of your drink just to do something with yourself, like that’s how small my mouth movement was. Nearly undetectable by the human eye.
But, alas, I had no idea what being high felt like, so based on all my non-existent evidence — I thought I was high, dude.
I knew two things about being high. One — you sit in a circle and tell funny stories about each other like That ’70s Show. And two — the munchies.
My friends prepared for this second condition. We ordered pizzas. We made dips. We baked cookies. We had hot dogs. And I, thinking I was high and that this was high protocol… Ate. It. All.
The hit that I took from the blang was probably 0.03 seconds, and the amount I spent eating was probably 3.00 hours — so that proportion is definitely, wildly off. But, hey, it was 4/20, bro-sé Cuervos, and I was spending it with my chill hot smoker friends.
Cut to a few hours later — I’m in bed, fast asleep — most likely dreaming about Justin Timberlake kissing me on the mouth, but hey, who’s to say. Suddenly, someone throat-punches me in the stomach (okay, obviously you can’t throat-punch someone in the stomach but it was the only word I could think of to describe the misery of this punch, okay?!). I jolt awake, and, upon realizing that nobody actually punched me, sprint full-force to the bathroom.
There was diarrhea. Everywhere. I know I say “literally” a lot, but I truly am using it correctly right now — I literally exploded.
It was all there — the pizza, the cookies, the hot dogs. The amount of calories I consumed earlier that night was basically like the value of pi but without any decimal point — just an endless, infinite number. I started crying. Why was my body betraying me?! Why was this happening to me — a totally chill smoker gurl?!
The next morning, I felt embarrassed. I felt ashamed. I felt like I definitely lost six pounds. It would be so poetic to say “it was at that moment that I realized, hey, smoking’s not for me :-)” But sadly, it took a few more failed attempts to really drill that point home.
If there’s a moral here, it’s this — don’t try to be something you’re not, okay? Celebrate today responsibly — and don’t forget, to always pass that em-effing blong, my bro-tini’s.