The last time (okay, second to last) I smoked I distinctly remember getting the spins… I’m not sure if I can attribute that to the combination of lots of alcohol and knowing me, probably various kinds (PBR was probably the downfall of it all), or the fact that I don’t smoke, EVER. We were at the after-hours party at a friends house, because clearly, where else would I be drunk enough at 3am to think that smoking was a remotely good idea at ALL, on ANY level.

Another friend and his hip-hop group had recently come out with a new music video that a few of us were watching. One neanderthal decided to replay the video over and over again because it was “Just sooo dope, homie!” Then he realised (how? I have no idea) that I was some sort of punching bag; you know, the kind for a 2 year old that right themselves after you knock them over, however, the amount of time it took to right myself again after being pushed onto the bed from a seated position was drastically longer than the time it took me to be knocked over once again. Motor skills impaired, I managed to mumble a pathetic “cut that shit out” once or twice until it finally got old enough (after about 10 times) for him to actually stop.

Standing in the garage with the cigarette smokers looked awful enticing so I managed to get up on my own two and stumble my way to the door frame, marveling at how I probably really did look like a drunk newly born giraffe on roller skates. “God, this was a fucking stupid idea” replayed in my head over and over again. And now on to the next poor idea… I clearly (about as clear as you can be when you’re stoned out of your fucking mind) remember thinking to myself “Do not move again, because if you do, you are going to fall over, and if you fall over they are all going to laugh at you.” Disregarding any shred of logic that was barely hanging on inside my skull, I took one step, then another, tripped over a can of spray paint, and began the slow and painfully obvious journey to the ground only to be stopped by a few pieces of ply wood, a canvas, and a few pairs of arms. And sure enough, everyone was laughing at me.

It was at this point that my stomach decided to be in utter disagreement with anything and everything I might have inhaled or consumed that night. Luckily, somewhere in the midst of the smoke and booze was my seasoned stoner wing-woman who was certainly maintaining far better than myself. “I’m think I’m wanting to be sick” I told her, as I made my way to the bathroom. Like a good friend she naturally assumed I was just a drunk idiot and ran upstairs to get bread, which turns out was probably the worst thing that could have ever happened. After a good lean against the wall, and an attempted bite of bread or two, I realised I wasn’t sick because of alcohol. I had massive cotton mouth and bread was the last thing I could have needed. No sickness! Bread in hand, I looked around for a trashcan. Nothing. I pondered flushing it down the toilet, then I realized that probably would go extremely poorly for the next person. The next best option? The shower. I set the piece of bread gingerly in the shower, smiled and left. Eventually I regained enough normality to drive myself home and eat a whole box of Kraft macaroni and cheese. Gross.

The next day, I get a message from the person who’s shower it was… “Did you put bread in my shower last night?” to which I responded “…maybe?”. Reason being, they didn’t realise it until halfway through the shower and looking down to see a soggy pile of wheat that slightly resembled the shape of a piece of toast on the tile below. Tried to pick it up, which is like trying to nail jell-o to a tree, in both cases gravity is going to take the win. Moral of this story (if there is one), I don’t smoke, and for obvious reasons. And this wasn’t meant to be that long, but I’ll just attribute it to the loss of brain cells from said instance.

But to all you weed totting, pot smoking, stoners, hippies and everyone in between: happy 4.20!