Weed Kinda Sucks, Though

Graphic Elizabeth Xu

It’s another closing shift’s end. I’m tired as hell and sore; I can only think of sleep.

As I pull my punch card and head for the door, a fellow cook, coated in the night’s sweat and twelve hours worth of grease, sidles over to me, a mischievous glint in his eye.

I have never liked this man; his askew moustache, his jokes about domestic violence, the way he says, ‘spank you!’ instead of thank you. Before I can make good my quiet escape, he places a moist palm on my shoulder.

“Hey bro… Wanna smoke some weed?”

I knew the question was coming. That’s the reality of all 20-somethings with decent taste in music: weed’s smiling, neutered face, omnipresent and forever emanating peace and love and chill vibes for everyone.

At some point, weed was defanged entirely, and a pervasive, false culture sprung up around it and invited everybody in. I’ve got long hair and some serious critical discourse on Kanye, so of course I want to smoke weed with this greasy stranger, right?

Wrong. I don’t want to smoke weed with this man. In fact, I genuinely think weed is a shitty, debilitating drug, with one of the worst cultures surrounding it. I’m not going to say I don’t smoke weed, to excess even, but I will definitely say that’s something to be ashamed of.

We’re living in an age where pot has been normalized—it’s not even a drug in most people’s minds. It doesn’t carry any of the negative weight of Reagan’s propaganda that still clings to heroin or coke.

It shouldn’t, that’s fair—it’s not the same, but damn, it can still ruin lives. Try smoking weed all day: your brain will fry, any motivation will evaporate, your emotions will drip to the floor and pool into a muddy malaise at your feet.

And those stoners, considered so harmless by our culture, so laughably emasculated?

I grew up with those kids, was one of those kids, and even then, it was just addiction, no different than hanging out with a bunch of hardcore fans of cough syrup.

All the same tenets apply—the routine, the need, the constant searching, the highs of acquisition, the lows of a stash’s end, the stealing.

Have you ever collected ancient dusty roaches from a barn attic for two hours? Have you ever stolen money from your baby sister?

So, no. I don’t want to smoke weed with you, creepy cook. I barely want to smoke weed with myself, and I reject this idea that being hip is akin to being down with weed.

It’s a fucking drug, treat it like any other—do it occasionally, and then ashamedly run five miles and drink a hemp smoothie the next morning.

Don’t make it your life, and don’t buy into a culture that’ll have you believe that filling your life with substances isn’t just a way to keep you stupid, unproductive and unfulfilled.