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The first time I got high, I was 15-years-old and hanging out with a raver girl from my high school — who allegedly took ecstasy for 365 days in a row. After school one day, she brought over a potato with a couple of holes carved into it, and we got stoned in her car while listening to Ani DiFranco. I could tell I was stoned because I took a sip of water, and it felt like fucking Niagara falls gushing down my throat. We then went to Taco Bell and drove around for two hours laughing about the word “chode,” until she crashed into a tree going 10 miles-per-hour.
Though it makes for a warm, fuzzy memory, that experience is fucking child’s play in a book of soft, sweet nursery rhymes compared to the next three stoner tales I’m about to drop. So, pack a bowl, grab some water (and maybe some toilet paper?) and get ready for three wild tales of what it is to get lit as fuck.
The time I shat my pants in Paris…
Many years ago, I went to Paris to visit a guy I was sexting with on Myspace. It felt very romantic online, except the day I arrived he told me he’d gotten some sort of wart removed from his anus and couldn’t have sex. Also, he worked 14-hour days, and I was pretty much alone the whole time.
I was feeling anxious and depressed, so I started numbing. He had three things in his apartment: red wine, a jar of tasty honey I couldn’t get enough of, and a bag of hash. Every morning I’d wake up and eat honey for breakfast, wash it down with a glass of wine, and walk as far as my feet could tolerate. Then, I decided to top off my morning routine with a couple hits of hash.
By the time I got to the glass pyramid that’s directly in front of the Louvre, I started feeling insane. I don’t want to blame it all on the hash: it was the cumulative effect of living off of honey and wine, and the energy of the millions of tourists around me. The hash just happened to be what put me over the edge and made me lose control of my butthole. I shat my pants, and a hot squirt of diarrhea ran down the side of my leg. I sped walked back to his apartment, and immediately booked a flight home that same afternoon.
The time I was catatonic during a family reunion…
I was visiting Argentina (my country of birth) and had to be at a huge family reunion by 6pm. I hadn’t visited Argentina since I was a kid, so I was about to see tons of people I hadn’t in years. I was genuinely excited for this. Earlier that day, my “boyfriend” from elementary school, whom I’d kept in touch with, asked me to hang out. (When I say “boyfriend,” I mean that once we played house, and I showed him my vagina, which made us a couple. Obviously.)
When he picked me up, he had one long dreadlock in the back of his head which he’d been growing out since he “went to India.” We went to his house, had terrible sex, and then he pulled out what literally looked like a fucking hay brick of weed. He rolled us a joint with it. I was used to gorgeous California flowers with purple and orange sprinkles in them. But this wasn’t that. This looked like the worst schwag on Earth — like, if a rat had died, grown moss around it, and was left to fossilize in a cave for ten years.
My very important family reunion was about to start, so we smoked the joint on our way there. And, boy — did I underestimate that Argentine schwag. When I arrived, I was so high I couldn’t even ring the doorbell. Not only that, I forgot how many relatives were going to hug me, kiss me, and ask me a million questions like, “tell us what you’ve been up to for the past 10 years,” while talking extremely close to my face. They must have known something was up. And, I had the worst cottonmouth in the history of the stoned world. I’m talking like lips-glued-to-your-teeth stoned: my mouth was incapable of producing enough moisture to say words. I think the most I said to anyone that night was “hi.” Or, well, “high.”
The time I smoked questionable Tijuana weed and ended up at a wedding in my pajamas…
As I’m writing these bits, I realize that my most intense stoned moments have all been while on vacation. This third one is my favorite, but also the scariest. I was dating a Puerto Rican musician that had a stunning, crooked penis. He was playing a show in Tijuana, and I lied to my parents and told them I was going to spend the night at a friend’s house. Instead, I stole my passport from their safe and drove to Tijuana.
Everything was great until we were hanging in his hotel room after the show, and he pulled out a little nug he said someone offered him. We rolled a spliff, and I think I only took one hit when my boyfriend decided to go to the lobby to get drinks for us. The moment he walked out, I fucking lost it. Like actually lost it — my memory was gone. I remember sitting on the bed thinking Who am I? Where am I? What’s my mom’s name? I couldn’t remember anything.
The next thing I know, I was in a banquet hall at the hotel — in my pajamas — roaming around the dancefloor of a wedding, fucking barefoot. I regained my memory at this point, and walked back to the room. My boyfriend was freaking out. He said I’d been gone for two hours and the cops were on their way. He thought I had been kidnapped.
These THC tales are fun now, but I want you to learn from them. Start low and go slow, regardless of where your weed comes from. And for that matter, be wary of organizing international smoke seshes with dudes you met on MySpace. Happy 4/20, y’all!
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