DreW KazinskY

Marijuana and I Andrew N. FarrensThe room is hazy with smoke. Sunlight filtered through the cloud to reveal a room rectangle in shape. To be more accurate, it was L-shaped, a combination living, dining room that is very common of the tract homes of Stockton’s westside. The television is on constantly, viewed by the Three Lords of the Couch. Watchdogs would not be an accurate statement, what with the smallest the size of a walking football. At the slightest provocation, they would jump off their throne and rampage through the house will ill-regard to furniture or people. The smoke in the room was thick and pungent. A drift of smoke still curled from the culprit; a huge, smashed, and soon to be thrown away roach. For those not familiar with this word, created in a by-gone era and exists to this day in the language of stoners, is the end of a marijuana cigarette. Nor would this one be lonely, for he was already surrounded by his brothers and would soon be joined by more. Quite a bit more, judging from the numerous, stinking buds sitting at attention on the coffee table. The day is very young. Now these buds were sticky and to roll a joint properly, you must have a grinder. When I first saw the strange metal contraption, I believed it was over-kill. Which it would be for someone like me, the common smoker, who’d rather spend the money on the weed rather than paraphernalia. However, as a friend of someone who smokes what many would consider way too much, I see that it is an essential tool of a major pot-head. It grinds the nugs into powder, which when rolled, produces a cigarette that will burn slowly. It is an enjoyable way to smoke but for the people who are poor, like myself, we use the time-honored method of either the scissors or our fingers. When you smoke three joints consistently in a half-hour, when those three joints are roughly the thickness of you’re pinkie finger, when those joints are blazed it fills the room with smoke and after awhile you don’t notice it. It becomes everything, this smoke. The environment, the actual air that we breathe is as toxic as what is in that rolled up paper. This is commonly known as hot-boxing. The best way, of course, is in a car, but this is very dangerous. Smoking in public is risky. The paranoia factor plays an incredible roll. The vigilance is misplaced, however, because in the end the police will always be there to make you’re life miserable. Many of the misguided youth of my city have recently bought cannabis club cards. Some are legit but most aren’t. The point is, these poor souls believe they can smoke weed out in public because the cards gives them divine right to do so. Or grow a massive amount of weed and advertise it all over the city. Well, growing is probably the wrong adjective. Trying to grow would be more truthful. Most of these people are dumb, and to run a successful operation and not get caught takes brains of the highest(not literally) order. I’ve seen a fruitful operation and the work that was required. It is not as easy as you think, folks. Science is involved. Stay in school and study the science classes if you really want to grow some good pot. I might be wrong about these things but I doubt it. I have been smoking for so many years now that it is almost my nature. That’s not pride, actually I have much regret from smoking so much and for so long. In my life it will stay, or not, whatever may happen, it has at least opened my eyes too many things that I would never have noticed before. To Be Continued.......................