By | 12.03.2019

Opinion you dating marijuana smokers the expert, can

I'M IN LOVE WITH A POTHEAD - ADVICE

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High There App is Tinder For Weed Smokers

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How to Date a Stoner When You Donít Smoke Weed

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I knew my life was a huge fucking mess. I was desperate to quit and be sober, but every time I tried, I failed. They say only 10 percent of all users become dependent on marijuana.

Dating marijuana smokers

I am the 10 percent. But I want to clarify: I believe in the power of marijuana. I believe the war on drugs is a crime, and I fully support the legalization of weed, among other drugs.

For the first time in my life, I was home. It was the weakest of the substances in my body at that time, so that in comparison to my mad-raving club-kid weekends of Ecstasy, LSD and bumps of speed or coke, marijuana seemed as innocuous as a cup of herbal tea.

It was always present, but I hardly noticed it was there. My transition to massive stoner in my 30s was a seamless, logical progression.

Pot, which I viewed as healthier than goji berries and quinoa combined, was the therapeutic overlord of these inferior substances. I was not alone in my marijuana worship; I knew plenty of ex-club kids who graduated from being beautiful, reckless pillheads to mystical marijuana professionals.

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But as my life got more adult and more complicated, my relationship with pot intensified. I started self-medicating like a motherfucker, and although I had no doubt my problem was enormous, everywhere I turned I found reason to justify my use, whether it was a medical-cannabis study online, a pro-pot op-ed in the New York Times or yet another blunts-cure-all conversation with another user.

Whoever dreams of becoming a middle-aged pothead? I was supposed to be vibrant and enjoy at least a modicum of professional success, but I was always too high and burned out to write anything to completion. I had become an unmotivated, out-of-breath hag, always with the enormous double-stuff spliff in my right hand. No amount of weed could give me any type of buzz. I was just plain tired. On Sunday, October 21, , a warm autumn afternoon, I came inside from the porch to roll another spliff and pop open the first-of-the-day bottle of beer, which I had started opening increasingly earlier in the day.

I looked down at the kitchen table, strewn with ripped-up American Spirit cigarettes; rolling papers of two brands and sizes, of which some were ripped and some were whole; pieces of thin cardboard used to make a filter; and a few small hard-plastic containers of pot, each from a different medical-marijuana dispensary.

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