Then I text my stoner cousin how I think ima smoker now; which took me awhile to lean into, mostly due to asthma. But there were these years I kept remembering not remembering. The years where I hibernated and forged what people are now calling the beginning of my career. Which isn’t inaccurate—I’m still nowhere near where I want to be—but I do find it funny considering the beginning is now going on a decade. But these years I’m referring to, where I revised myself and book #1; wrote book #2; and defended a draft of book #3 for a degree I never cared about getting, do not exist as accomplishments in my mind. I only remember them as me laying across this brown, raggedy futon that still haunts me since it reminds me that if I didn’t spend three years on it—I never would’ve known the difference between dire ambition and depression.
Before I laid down in both—I didn’t believe weed worked on me. I had tried all forms of it—the blunt, the bong, etc, but never felt it in my body so I thought it wasn’t working right; everybody kept reveling this ‘head high’ that never seemed to translate to my brain. Then edibles got recommended to me. I learn to make my own—brownies mostly—and learn excess is the only way I can enjoy cannabis; and by enjoy, I mean not constantly wonder if depression a for now thing, an Accutane thing, or an always thing. I know the answer. But I get so high it lasts days. I get so high I’m vibrating constantly. I’m reminded my body has breath. Still nothing in my head tho, but my mouth swallows whatever it can find. Hunger has sustained me in more ways than one.