pot.
Stop asking me if I smoked pot. You can all quit emailing me about it, or emailing me about something else and casually bringing it up. You are like a big fucking junior high peer pressure video.
“Yeah, but you’re in Amsterdam” my ass. I’ve been in plenty of perfect places to smoke. I’ve sat in, on and around enough smoked filled rooms / fields / beaches / barns / campfires /etc to incriminate half the population of three universities and the backpacker circuits of several countries. I’m not going to do it.
It’s not like I have a fanatical personality. I’m a Jew that goes to Quaker Meeting and a vegetarian that eats bacon. This is not about defining myself, or taking a stand, or judging you. I’m just not interested, in the way I wasn’t interested in seeing Pulp Fiction. I don’t care if everyone else has.
I don’t agree with the insinuation that by not smoking pot I am denying myself something precious that I don’t even know I’m missing. As my mom will tell you at length if you get anywhere near her, I make shortsighted impulsive occasionally self-destructive decisions all the time, solely for the purpose of feeling something new. And although smoking pot would be something new, so would getting branded or running a marathon or becoming a Born Again Christian. Some new things we choose to try, and some we don’t. Quit your job and fly to Serbia and then you can give me shit about being closed to new experiences.
After spending countless hours over the past ten years in every possible context with pot smokers, I find pot smoking categorically boring. I hate the lethargy and the emotional distance of high people. I hate the way smoking up replaces the actually fun activities that were originally on the agenda. I hate the pseudointellectual, agonizingly repetitive conversations of an evening sitting around smoking pot.
And if the real impetus to smoke is internal rather than external, I’m not interested in that either. People think I’m high all the fucking time. People have been asking me if I was high since eleventh grade. I don’t know why I was lucky enough to receive it, but I have the most marvelous top shelf brain chemistry available. I walk down the street and the buildings sing. I can enjoy a piece of cake for an hour. Cordoroy fills me with rapture. These are not illustrative exaggerations. When I say the buildings sing, I don’t mean I like architecture; I mean, I hear the buildings sing. I have to keep myself in check constantly just so everyone around me doesn’t think I’m absolutely out of my mind.
So I’m just not going to fuck with that. It would be downright ungrateful. And smoking pot sure as hell isn’t the most adventurous or intense or social or mood-enhancing or soul-searching or mind-opening thing I could find to do in Amsterdam.
It’s not that interesting that you smoke pot, and it’s not that interesting that I don’t.
Let’s move on then, shall we?
“Yeah, but you’re in Amsterdam” my ass. I’ve been in plenty of perfect places to smoke. I’ve sat in, on and around enough smoked filled rooms / fields / beaches / barns / campfires /etc to incriminate half the population of three universities and the backpacker circuits of several countries. I’m not going to do it.
It’s not like I have a fanatical personality. I’m a Jew that goes to Quaker Meeting and a vegetarian that eats bacon. This is not about defining myself, or taking a stand, or judging you. I’m just not interested, in the way I wasn’t interested in seeing Pulp Fiction. I don’t care if everyone else has.
I don’t agree with the insinuation that by not smoking pot I am denying myself something precious that I don’t even know I’m missing. As my mom will tell you at length if you get anywhere near her, I make shortsighted impulsive occasionally self-destructive decisions all the time, solely for the purpose of feeling something new. And although smoking pot would be something new, so would getting branded or running a marathon or becoming a Born Again Christian. Some new things we choose to try, and some we don’t. Quit your job and fly to Serbia and then you can give me shit about being closed to new experiences.
After spending countless hours over the past ten years in every possible context with pot smokers, I find pot smoking categorically boring. I hate the lethargy and the emotional distance of high people. I hate the way smoking up replaces the actually fun activities that were originally on the agenda. I hate the pseudointellectual, agonizingly repetitive conversations of an evening sitting around smoking pot.
And if the real impetus to smoke is internal rather than external, I’m not interested in that either. People think I’m high all the fucking time. People have been asking me if I was high since eleventh grade. I don’t know why I was lucky enough to receive it, but I have the most marvelous top shelf brain chemistry available. I walk down the street and the buildings sing. I can enjoy a piece of cake for an hour. Cordoroy fills me with rapture. These are not illustrative exaggerations. When I say the buildings sing, I don’t mean I like architecture; I mean, I hear the buildings sing. I have to keep myself in check constantly just so everyone around me doesn’t think I’m absolutely out of my mind.
So I’m just not going to fuck with that. It would be downright ungrateful. And smoking pot sure as hell isn’t the most adventurous or intense or social or mood-enhancing or soul-searching or mind-opening thing I could find to do in Amsterdam.
It’s not that interesting that you smoke pot, and it’s not that interesting that I don’t.
Let’s move on then, shall we?
posted by tortaluga at 6:51 PM
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