Tuesday, September 29, 2015

I’m Holding The Correct End, Right?

The other night, I pulled out a tissue, and five came out. For a brief, terrifying moment, I felt like a clown.

No, I wasn’t stoned. Because I’ve never been stoned.

That’s not to say I haven’t been offered. My dorm at Maryland was like living in downtown Kingston. Guys smoked weed from 8 a.m. to 2 a.m. Same with my fraternity brothers. And now pot is so legal in California, you can get a prescription via Skype. (For real.)

It simply never interested me. I like working out, and writing – and I couldn’t function at either endeavor stoned.

My inexperience was on display on Sunday, when I was about to get on stage for a big casting workshop in a scene in which I was supposed to light up. I needed a pipe, So I ran down the street to a shop called Smoke & Gift, and bought the glass one in the pic above. I confirmed with the guy behind the counter that it wasn’t for crack, and he was nice enough not to call me an idiot.

The scene went great, save for inhaling a big hit off the lighter. Which means while I’ve never smoked marijuana, I have now, unfortunately, huffed butane.

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