I’ve never really liked smoking pot. More to the point, I’ve never really liked the way pot makes me feel: foggy and sleepy and clumsy. Once, while stoned, I attempted to make a peppermint tea and ended up pouring a kettle of boiling water onto my hand. I was in my early twenties at the time, and though I was no pothead, a night out with friends usually included passing around a joint. But even after a few small puffs, I often found myself feeling much higher than I wanted to be. The realization would hit with a sudden thwap, my heart would race and I’d worry about how long the high would last. And the lethargy, bloodshot eyes and salt-and-vinegar Miss Vickie’s binges that followed didn’t exactly correspond with my idea of myself as an ambitious young professional.
I had already cut back to using it just a few times
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