Mary Jane

A friend of mine offered to give me some pot recently, marijuana if you will, and of course I said yes.  I have said yes a few times, to a few different individuals in the past month yet no one has yet to follow through.  I’m not sure if this is my fault for not seeming sincere, or if there is a certain protocol no one told me about that needs to be adheared to.  Regardless, I’m impressed that I have people actually offering it to me.  I’ve come a long way.

My siblings smoke, my friends obviously smoke and if I adopt a new acquaintance, I will find out if they smoke.  They all do.  It’s no longer a taboo subject, if it ever was.  I would be the last person anyone should turn to for intel on the matter anyway, I went from cherubed faced innocent to boozehound flirt in the same time it took to move my comforter from my parents home to the college dormroom.  What never crossed my mind though was replacing the handle of vodka in my underwear drawer with plants.

When I was a Sophomore in high school, the Varsity Tennis members and I went out for a dinner meant for bonding.  Varsity was small, four members including myself, and the two  Juniors suggested we go to Rasta Pasta, a favorite for some of the upperclassmen.  One of the girls lived in my neighborhood, she was ranked number one on the team and had long black hair.  She was beautiful, a race other than the ninety nine percent caucasian population in my city and cool as shit.  Her counterpart, number two, was the opposite.  She was a cheerleader part time, bleached blonde and as white as my mother’s accountant.  I never saw them together in the hallways of my high school but on the tennis court, or Rasta Pasta, they were the best of friends.

We ate pasta, as that was the only thing on the menu and my supposed equal and I laughed at our two mentors.  They were hilarious, they got along and they were welcoming us into their world.  They wanted us to smoke with them.

I ruined that possibility.

After dinner, before we made our way out, one of the girls asked if we would like “to join in.”   She could’ve been asking if I wanted to join in shoe shining competition and I wouldn’t have known the difference.  I started to ask if she meant we were getting dessert when my fellow sophomore put her arm in front of me. Instead of answering verbally my friend gave the upper classmen a huge sigh and a head shake.

That’s the part I really remember  A sigh.  And a head shake.

She knew what they were talking about.  She knew and the sigh meant she wanted to partake.  But what about me?  What about the naive companion she was babysitting?  I was not only ignorant of anything of importance that was going on but she assumed, rightfully, that I would’ve flipped out at the thoughtful offer.

My parents should high five each other if they ever read this.  They successfully scared their firstborn into thinking the consequences of smoking were unrecoverable, dirty, and punishable by an eterinity in Hell.  Maybe.

Or maybe not.  Call me, friends.  Give me an offer I can’t refuse.

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