As finals approach, my freshman year of college draws to an end. While finishing a 10-page research paper the night before it’s due, I find it as fitting a time as ever to sneak outside for a cigarette. “Finally, a moment of peace.” I think to myself. But there they are, lurking around the smoker’s table. The typical college “stoners”. They are in full traditional garb: two pierced ears with diamond studded earrings, sporting the “drug rug”, a longboard, backwards snap-backs, and the ubiquitous socks with pot leaves on them that seem to feature prominently in the wardrobe of anyone under the age of 21 who has ever sparked a joint or at least listened to a Kid Cudi album. They are splitting a wine-wood tip Black and Mild, deep in conversation, posing existential, thought-provoking questions, and debating how U.S.-Russian relations will be strained by the situation in Crimea.
I’m kidding about the last part. They’re talking about pot. They’re always fucking talking about pot.
“Dude, I got so high yesterday. I smoked about 3 grams from Kelsey’s new bong and ate half of a weed muffin.”
“I know man, I smoked a blunt with Kevin this morning. We hotboxed his car and I got too high to go to class, so we watched Fresh Prince of Bel-Air in his room with a box of Cheez-Its and passed out until 4.”
The sentiment among those who aren’t fascinated by the “weed culture” is typically a resounding “Who the fuck cares?” If I asked you, “How was your day?” I don’t want the reply to be quantified in how many bowls you smoked. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve yet to meet anyone here who hasn’t experimented with the ganja, with celebrities like Miley Cyrus puffing on swisher sweets like it was going out of style. It’s a relatively friendly drug. It doesn’t get you too messed up, it’s much safer than alcohol, and it’s a powerful anti-depressant. The only problems I have with weed are these three points:
1. It’s illegal, and campus police are typically dicks about it.
2. The smell invites nosy RAs to come a-knocking.
3. Every college kid who smokes it more than once suddenly thinks they’re Bob Marley reincarnated.
Since when did “weed” become a personality-type à la “athlete” or “hipster” anyway? I don’t need to see you tweet something along the lines of “Me and the boys bouta smoke a blunt on the ride over to Chipotle. Who’s in?” I’m not. Your life is not a Wiz Khalifa music video, and if you can’t talk to me about something other than how much an eighth goes for at wherever the fuck you’re from, you’re probably really boring. It begs the following question: If a college kid smokes a blunt in the woods and doesn’t post a vignette-filtered selfie of himself doing a french-inhale on Instagram, then does he really get high? Call me a judgmental prick, but you know the type of person I’m talking about.
They’re the type of kids that buy an eighth of Mexican brick weed for $55 and then tell you about how great of a deal their “boy” gave them. The type of kids that have a Rastafari tri-colored “One Love” tapestry in their room but need their buddy to remind them to take out the fucking slider on a bong. The type of kids that smoke in their dorm-rooms and then immediately throw on a pair of sunglasses… indoors. The type of kids that go up to black people at house parties and ask them where they can “score some bud”. They’re brazen, they don’t care, and my God are they fucking annoying.
A new disturbing trend among college students at my University is the use of “dabs” or Butane Hash Oil. It’s smoked out of an “oil rig”, which looks like a bong. A small amount of the oil, or the “dab”, is placed on a paper clip. The glass bowl part of the oil rig is heated with a butane torch until it is red hot, and the dab is placed inside. The effect of smoking dabs is a very intense high that lasts longer than smoking the plant on it’s own. Something about college kids getting violently high and playing with butane torches indoors doesn’t sound like a fantastic idea to me.
In short, my advice to those of you who are heading to college is to chill the fuck out. You’re not going to leave a long-standing good impression on anyone by smoking 6 dabs in a row and eating an entire weed-laced banana walnut scone, especially when these people you just met are preoccupied about where the nearest vending machine is. Take what you want from weed, and don’t use it to impress anyone. Do what makes you comfortable, and find out where you belong without the use of drugs. Remember that a little discretion in your smoking habits goes a long way. And if you do decide to join the squad of kids who will not shut the fuck up about how much weed they smoke, then please, please don’t talk to me.