Published in Global Voices issue of Weber-The Contemporary West, Fall 2016.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not hooked. I can and do go for months without. But if the mood’s right, if the people are right, sure, I’ll climb aboard the smoky express. Ganja usually makes me ravenous; no other buzz hits me quite that way. I’d tried other things when I was younger. Liquor makes me woozy, dyle brings awful hallucinations (of oversized frogs) and the pill combos we popped with such abandon in the past make me throw up once I hit ground. I’ve never tried the hard, though—no coke, heroin, yaba. Ten years ago I would’ve added that I’d like to, but not anymore. No, I’ve passed the experimenting age. I know what I like and stick to it.
Getting ganja these days is hard. Seven years ago I was still a student. Five years ago I was still studentish: I possessed slim hips and hip friends. These days, one was expanding, the other disappearing.