I am dating a pothead


Without Kevin’s musical influence, I surely wouldn’t have moved from Florida to my beloved New Orleans after college.I worshipped Kevin until junior year, when he began smoking weed and abandoned me and my antidrug bitching.I always made a point to speak honestly about my habit to medical doctors.At the end of any physical, after being told my lungs sounded pink, I derived perverse delight from admitting I smoked weed 20 times a day.Before becoming a real and true pothead, I fought ferociously with my long-term college girlfriend -- a fiery girl herself who was prone to throwing punches.



Judgments regarding weed never prove factual, since the drug affects everyone differently. I’d leave fun parties because, within moments of smoking, I had to rush home and produce something: record a song, write a story.Unlike mom, though, I refused to ignore the common denominator: me.So the discovery of pot was, for me, a mellowing godsend. My volatile girlfriend and I enjoyed more mindblowing sex while high.“I know if I try it, I will like it too much,” I remember saying — perhaps the only smart, true statement I would utter for many years to come.

The hardest friend to lose was a guy I’ll call Kevin. He got me playing guitar, which continues to provide me with happiness and social adventures at the age of 39.

After Katrina, some entrepreneurial spirit realized this -- someone from Houston, we suspected -- and suddenly luscious, fragrant weed became available everywhere for $50 an eighth.