420: A Somewhat Blurry Retrospective

in Culture

4/20 is the only holiday I enjoy. Christmas hits me right in the swing of seasonal depression. Halloween was fun when I was younger, but now that I can wear slutty costumes and worship the dead in the comfort of my own home, it seems silly to limit myself to one day a year. 4’th of July is a farce. Easter can’t decide whether it’s a Christian celebration of Jesus becoming a zombie or a pagan celebration of orgasms and…rabbits? Maybe I’m an old washed-up Scrooge who needs to smoke less and breathe more fresh air, but 4/20 is my favorite day of the year.

When I was growing up, my parents lumped all drugs into the same extremely forbidden category and didn’t offer many specifics on what the drugs were, what they did, how they differentiated from one another, or anything really other than “Listen here you short-haired bastard, don’t you even glance at a reefer cigarette or before you know it you’ll be living on skid row, schizophrenic from masturbation and further away from the kingdom of heaven than people are able to recover from.”

Reporting live from the fires of hell.

Writers exaggerate for a living so it should come as no surprise that the above quote was, alas, a dramatic interpretation of a common denominator between myself and anyone else who grew up without receiving proper harm reduction education or so much as a fucking flow chart explaining the wonderful wide world of substance abuse. This might explain why I tried almost every drug under the sun before my 21st birthday, but that’s a story for another time. My parents were both white Christian Conservatives so any mention of 4/20 in the house was once a year when my Dad would …

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Author: Patrick Maravelias / High Times

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