I have been lying to everyone I’ve ever loved or cared about, including you. I admit that what I have done is wrong and that I have slim to no chance that any of you will forgive me, let alone smoke with me ever again. But I can live the lie no longer. Please, amidst your disgust and feelings of betrayal, try—for my sake—to make it to the end of this apology.
I stopped smoking weed. I’m not sure of the exact date, but it’s been for some time now. At first, I just started slowly minimizing my daily inhale intake—from six joints to four, four joints to two, two to a few hits and, eventually, nothing. But please note that as I was cutting back my puff intake, I was simultaneously crossing over to the other side of stonerdom—racking up major THC via my pot-food diet.
It all started with a HIGH TIMES tradition called Space Cake Fridays. I got off on the high, sure. But I also really started liking who I became during all of that cooking: the Medicine Woman, the Healer, the Stoner Betty Crocker. My happiest moments were receiving calls from satisfied co-workers coating me with all of their heartfelt compliments about how fantastic my latest batch of Orange Crush Carrot Cake was. And, more importantly, how fucked up they were. And, even more importantly, how they would never be so fucked up again.
I made it my personal mission to push the baggie further and further each time I cooked. I wanted to see that same oversatisfied smile on every face in the world. Smoking was a thing of the past. I replaced vaporizers and bongs with pies and brownies. It was my job. It was expected of me. My fridge filled up with pans and pots and Tupperware containers. I never left home without a tasty THC treat-to-go. My nights in front of the oven began blurring into one another. I couldn’t remember if I’d made the Ganja Green Bean Bake a week ago or the night before. I started experimenting with all kinds of new ways to cook: microwaves, crockpots, even the toaster oven. I had a one-track mind set to 450ÂºF.