My friend ██████ had a boyfriend until he classily broke up with her over the phone on their one-year anniversary. For the next few months, all she would say was, “I loved him,” “He betrayed me,” and “I’m killing myself and you can’t stop me.”
During this depression, she started smoking marijuana. And smoking marijuana. And smoking and smoking and smoking marijuana, as often as seven times per day.
“Life isn’t fun anymore unless I’m stoned,” ██████ would say, as if she were starring in a cheesy anti-drug commercial. “It’s just a part of everyday life, like brushing my teeth or something.”
This worried me. I had never smoked marijuana, and I certainly didn’t enjoy seeing my friend drugged-up all the time.
One night I invited her to my house to watch The X-Files, so she’d have something to do other than smoke. My parents were gone, and while I was in the bathroom, she opened her bag and withdrew a tiny pipe.
“Sorry, I know you don’t like it,” ██████ said after I had finished peeing, “but have you ever triedit?”
“I’ve never seen drugs before,” I said.
“Let’s smoke out—it’ll be so much fun!”
“Well . . .” I say. “I guess I’m kind of curious?”
She packed the pipe and held her lighter’s flame over the bud.
“Is this going to stink up the house?” I asked, concerned about my parents discovering my friend’s delinquent habit.
“Of course not,” ██████ said.
We proceeded to completely stink up the house.
“Shit,” I said, hands trembling, as I realized that the aroma had permeated throughout. “They’ll know they’ll know they’ll know they’ll know.”
I sprayed chemical air freshener everywhere. The house still reeked of weed, and now it reeked of Lysol too. We burned ██████’s incense in one last desperate attempt to cover our tracks before my parents came home.
My father drove ██████ back to her house. He did not say a word during the entire trip.
“Marty,” he told me after dropping her off, “if you ever need condoms, just let me know.”
Whew, I sighed with relief. They only thought I was having sex, not doing drugs. Thank you, Jesus.
However, when we returned home, my mother was holding the can of air freshener.
“Marty, why is this in the living room?” she asked.
“Um . . .” I said. “██████ farted . . . like . . . really bad.”
My parents knew. They were angry, of course, but I’d like to believe that my Woodstock-attending father was secretly, silently proud of his stoned, paranoid failure of a son.