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Chill, it's just weed.

Updated: Jun 18, 2019

Which brings us to our very first ever Just High Thoughts™!


In this column, I’ll be writing about all things weed, whether it's stories about being high or stories I've thought of when I'm high. Anyone who knows me personally knows one thing: I am an outspoken marijuana advocate. I have been for about ten years and counting. I even remember the first time my mother found out I was a weed smoker, and it went a little something like this:


The time was about 8:00 AM and I was in the home that my sister and I shared as we both went to cosmetology school. My mother had just arrived for the day to watch my nephew as we learned to “play with hair,” as so many will eloquently put it. I’m applying my makeup and I hear my sister yelling from the hallway in the back of the house:


“Zahlia, I swear to God, if you don’t fucking tell her that you smoke too, I’m gonna fucking freak,”


or something of that nature. I’m taken aback, and I look into the hallway and see my mother marching towards me, holding the gravity bong my sister and I kept in the basement. Yep, straight up “That 70’s Show” vibes. But, just like the cast of that show, all good things had to come to an end.


My mother continued towards me, shouting, and I’ll never forget it either, “you mother-fuckin’ psycho bitch…” and then more stuff, but I was too shocked to take any more in. She has later admitted to my sister and I that her first thought upon seeing the GB was "it's a crack pipe." None that I've ever seen, but sure. I’ve never heard my mom react to anything like this, to this extent, so my initial reaction was to just laugh. I’m sorry, mom, but it’s just weed.


I can understand her anger though. We were renting the place after all. And, now that I think back on it... I never did ask her if she wanted a hit. Rude.


So, as you know, we didn't stop smoking. We just kept the gravity bong on top of the refrigerator so that my mother, who stands just shy of 5'5, couldn't see it up there. Or, at least she pretended not to see it. If so, thanks mom, 'preciate ya.


Fast forward eight years later, and my mom and I have a habit of texting each other right at 4:20 PM, just to make sure we’re staying on top of it. It’s not seldom that she tells me she wishes she could smoke. She would, but you know, random work drug tests and whatnot. Way to stick it to the man, mom!