That one time I toked pot several years after college.

[trinityofone]

Lost my pot virginity this weekend. Was it the lovely, tender experience I had always dreamt of? Eh, not so much. Like most things of this type, I have always been shy and reluctant to give it up. False starts of the past include:

1. A guy I dated in college who really wanted me to smoke with him, mostly because he seemed to think it would inspire me to do other things with him. I wisely declined.

2. The time spazatron ate my pot brownie.

3. The time siriaeve and I decided that we wanted to have that one time we smoked pot in college while we were still in college; after quickly determining that neither one of us knew where to acquire the necessaries in Dublin, we had a nice cuppa instead.

However, now that I am so very much older and wiser, I am also much more well-connected. I still hang out with a bunch of my coworkers from The Job From Hell, and when one of them suggested that we get together this weekend, partake of some wacky tobaccy, and go see the Harold & Kumar sequel, I was totally on board. But things didn’t go exactly as planned.

First of, desires shifted and we ended up deciding to see Iron Man instead, as I was the only one who’d already been. And the joints I thought we would be enjoying turned out to be a bong. I AM NOT A FAN OF THE BONG. I kept burning my thumb on the lighter, I twice overestimated my lung capacity and ended up nearly choking, and the smoke really burned my throat and made we wretch. R. was very sweet with me (I think he was secretly horrified when he discovered it was my first time—“I’m not sure I want to be responsible for destroying your innocence”), but I felt like an idiot, to the point that I felt the need to loudly and repeatedly call “NARC!” on myself. (Fitting: my father, who works on COPS and JAIL, just brought me back a New Jersey Narcotics Agents t-shirt—yes, I am always getting stuff like this when he goes away on business; I think I have more random government agency swag than some government agencies.)

So anyway, we passed the bong around N.’s living room for a while, a Top Chef marathon playing in the background. This did give us the opportunity to indulge in some clichéd stoner dialogue:

(A commercial for Kraft cheese, featuring a woman swiftly advancing through nine months of pregnancy, airs.)
Me: I’m not the only one who thinks that pregnancy is, like, really creepy, right?
B: Everything, like all the systems of the human body—it’s all creepy.
R: Right, ‘cause we’re really, like, just a bunch cells interacting with each other. That’s all we are.
(Pause.)
N, B, & Me: (Uncontrollable giggles)
R: What?

After some extensive and much dithered-over preparation, which included N. secreting an entire liter of Coke in her purse, we finally managed to get out of the house to walk to the movie theater. It was a good 15-20 minute walk, and N. spent the entire time laughing uncontrollably. Personally, I was trying very hard to analyze how I was feeling, presumably so I could use the experience later in writing. (I spend way too much time thinking this way.) The weirdest thing was that my head felt relatively clear, but when I tried to speak, everything came out jumbled. It was actually kind of scary, as the interjection of “witty” remarks is pretty much the only thing I have to add to any social gathering. (Yes, I am the Chandler.) I didn’t like the feeling that there was some kind of massive disconnect between my brain and my mouth. No wonder Rodney ate an entire loaf of white bread; then he wouldn’t have to freak himself out with his own incoherent babble.

My high, such as it was, didn’t help the movie-going experience any, either. I know people like to watch movies stoned—it’s supposed to very much improve some of them, in fact. *cough2001cough* It didn’t do anything for Iron Man. This is a movie I really loved clear-headed, but on this viewing I just felt disconnected; the pot made it seem like all the actors’ timing was suddenly off. I’m just not sure I can endorse anything that makes Iron Man less awesome.

We finally stumbled back to N.’s, and thence home. I figured I’d sleep it off, but, weakling that I am, I actually spent much of Sunday feeling incredibly lethargic and fuzzy-headed. All in all, I think I prefer getting drunk—alcohol at least tastes good. Still, I’m glad that I had this experience—from a scientific perspective, I found it quite valuable. (I’m sure Rodney would agree.) And I’d be willing to try again with a joint/a brownie spazatron didn’t ingest. Me and bongs, though—I think we’re done. Sorry, bongs: I’m just not that into you.

Feel free to share your own wacky drug stories; I’m sure they are more interesting than mine.

Comments

[randomeliza.livejournal.com]

I tried pot once in college. It made my mouth taste funny, and otherwise did nothing cool. I really have no interest in getting high. Does that make me weird?

Word on the drunk = good, though. Yay for alcohol. Particularly if it tastes all fruity.

[trinityofone.livejournal.com]

Fruity drinks = FTW!

And I don't think you're weird. Many, in fact, would call you sensible!

Also, while all this was going on, B. reported once passing out from hookah smoking. I thought this would amuse you.