Then I text my stoner cousin how I think ima smoker now; which took me awhile to lean into, mostly due to asthma. But there were these years I kept remembering not remembering. The years where I hibernated and forged what people are now calling the beginning of my career. Which isn’t inaccurate—I’m still nowhere near where I want to be—but I do find it funny considering the beginning is now going on a decade. But these years I’m referring to, where I revised myself and book #1; wrote book #2; and defended a draft of book #3 for a degree I never cared about getting, do not exist as accomplishments in my mind. I only remember them as me laying across this brown, raggedy futon that still haunts me since it reminds me that if I didn’t spend three years on it—I never would’ve known the difference between dire ambition and depression.
Before I laid down in both—I didn’t believe weed worked on me. I had tried all forms of it—the blunt, the bong, etc, but never felt it in my body so I thought it wasn’t working right; everybody kept reveling this ‘head high’ that never seemed to translate to my brain. Then edibles got recommended to me. I learn to make my own—brownies mostly—and learn excess is the only way I can enjoy cannabis; and by enjoy, I mean not constantly wonder if depression a for now thing, an Accutane thing, or an always thing. I know the answer. But I get so high it lasts days. I get so high I’m vibrating constantly. I’m reminded my body has breath. Still nothing in my head tho, but my mouth swallows whatever it can find. …
Author: Kendra Allen / High Times