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Confessions of a pot addict

My relationship with pot started off badly. I lost all my high school friends after self-righteously refusing to smoke. I preached at everyone until our friendships evaporated. “I know if I try it, I will like it too much,” I remember saying — perhaps the only smart, true statement I would utter for many years to come.

The hardest friend to lose was a guy I’ll call Kevin. Kevin got me off Ratt and onto The Smiths. He got me playing guitar, which continues to provide me with happiness and social adventures at the age of 39. Without Kevin’s musical influence, I surely wouldn’t have moved from Florida to my beloved New Orleans after college. I worshipped Kevin until junior year, when he began smoking weed and abandoned me and my antidrug bitching. That same year, Kevin’s parents bought him a very nice car, which he crashed while skipping school and tripping on mushroom with his new drug buddies. At the time, I felt depressed but also extremely right.

When I finally broke down and tried pot in college at the age of 20, I realized I’d judged it totally wrong. Judgments regarding weed never prove factual, since the drug affects everyone differently. Some people plant themselves on the couch with snacks. Others grow manic and suffer panic attacks. I think of weed as a relaxant, a simple inverse of coffee -- and not just because I smoked every morning for a long, long time.

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