Tolerance Break

It’s no secret that I’m a raging stoner- always have been, probably destined to always be. 

I received an early education from my stoner mother and cemented my habits with stoner friends throughout my formative high school years. There’s this weird anomaly that most long-term pot aficionados can attest to, which is that stoners can always seek out and attract other stoners, no matter where in the world or in their life they happen to be. It’s a gift really, like a special extra sense is activated through the THC receptors or something. 

We tend to surround ourselves almost exclusively with fellow greenthumbs, because they’re usually the only ones that don’t hassle us about our bummer of a habit. They’re also the only ones who’ll sit and smoke a quarter ounce and watch two seasons of rick and morty and devour a diabetes inducing amount of sugary treats with you and not think anything of it. Basically, fellow stoners are the only ones capable of the extreme level of chill required to hang out with us. 

I never thought I’d say this, but I’m starting to think I’ve had too much chill. Smoking weed has been my primary hobby for the past fifteen years. It’s been great, don’t get me wrong, but now that I’m in my thirties I’m wondering if I should expand my interests some. 

The problem with a chronic addiction that it leaves little time or money for anything else so it literally becomes your whole life. Attempts to introduce new habits and hobbies are usually an exercise in futility because one week you won’t have enough money to get weed and pay for whatever activity you were planning on, so a choice has to be made, and that choice will always be weed. Another week you’ll be too stoned and forget to go. After that you’re just too embarrassed or bored with the whole thing  that you simply drop it forever, and resume your glassy eyed sloth pose on the couch, watching Gilmore Girls reruns and scooping milo out of the tin.

But  then one day you emerge from your hazy-brained fog enough to remember you were once a kid who actually wanted to do shit with their life. You were bright eyed and shiny-haired and you had the world at your dainty little feet. You dreamed of being a famed author, an Olympic runner, an astronaut. You even promised your dad that one day  you’d bring him back a piece of the moon, you lying little shit. You wanted to travel to faraway places and do strange faraway things, and now you barely go outside, not even to score your precious drugs, as your dealer now does house calls. 

I’m content with my life, but can I honestly say I’m living it the best I could be? Possibly not. Probably not. 

So I’ve made a decision. Starting next week, I’m going to take a little break. I’m not calling it quitting because that’s too big of a commitment and that word is heavy. But I’m setting myself the challenge of a minimum of seven stoned-free days, a weedless week. That feels achievable, and if after I’ve completed it I feel like I can keep going without it for longer, I will. And if I can’t, a week is still a good start, and I still will have completed my goal. 

If nothing else it’ll be a good tolerance break, and I’ll enjoy a more intense high when I do resume smoking. 

I’m secretly hoping, though, that this will mark the beginning of a break in this deeply rooted, and ultimately destructive habit. I am so attached to the ritual of getting stoned that it feels bigger than me somehow, and beyond my capability to cease. I need to prove to myself that this isn’t the case; surely, deep down inside, there’s some untapped source of self-discipline, even just a little nugget of willpower that will fight its way to the surface if I just try. 

So try I will, and I have a plan to boot. Luckily my fellow-stoner boyfriend is on board- it would be near impossible to attempt this without him. Our tolerance week will commence on Feb 1st, which feels like a nice clean date, and happens to fall on a Wednesday which is payday and score day. Every night we will have a scheduled activity for the after work hours, ranging from the gym, to going to the movies, to trying out new restaurants. On the Thursday I begin a 3-week meditation course which I’m hoping will assist with clearing my thoughts of weed. I’ve recently started doing yoga and I plan to step up my classes to three times a week. We will also have wine and sleeping pills on hand in case of insomnia. 

I’m both looking forward to, and dreading it. One thing I keep reminding myself of is that if boyfriend and I can avoid buying weed for just two weeks, we’ll collectively save $500. That’s ridiculous, and when you go deeper into the economic reality of our combined habit it’s outright anxiety-inducing. I guess that’s why we largely ignore it. But if I really want to make changes, I need to wake up to these harsh realities. I can’t afford to keep burying my head in the mull butter anymore.

I’ll keep you all updated on my progress, and I’d love to hear about your experiences with anything similar in the comments. Any advice is welcome! 

Wish me luck, lovely readers, I need all the good vibes I can get. ‚úĆūüŹĽ

How to be an Emotional Wreck and Suck at Everything

 I’ve been blundering my way through this ‘life’ thing for nearly thirty years now, and I still haven’t quite figured out how to be good at it. I have, however, acquired a particular set of skills; namely, in fucking up and being a total failure. So for those of you out there who have successfully transitioned into adulthood,  are perhaps bored with your smooth sailing, easy-breezy lifestyle over in Made It-ville, here’s some tips on how to foray over  to the wrong side of the tracks and take up residence in FuckUp Town, all in just 10 easy steps! So put down your kale and chia juice or whatever it is that real grown-ups do these days, and prepare to be un-enlightened. You’re welcome.   Continue reading “How to be an Emotional Wreck and Suck at Everything”

Mary Jane and Me

 

My relationship with weed has lasted longer than any of my partners, and for that matter, most of of my friends. Our shared history is a fractious one, and to this day remains based on a love/hate dynamic. It is the one thing that is always there for me, yet it is the one thing that I allow to control me and hold me back. It’s  kind of like I’ve been in an emotionally abusive relationship with my bong for the past 15 years. Continue reading “Mary Jane and Me”

A Guide to Dating a Drunken Dickhead: Part 1

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The Life Underwhelming 

“So, what have you been up to?” I fucking hate that question, and all variations of it, such as “what’s been happening?” or the cringe-worthy, “what’s the goss?”

I hate this question, because what am I supposed to answer? I’ve been working. Sleeping. Existing. Avoiding human contact as much as possible while sitting in my room watching dumb cartoons getting fucking stoned alone. Is that what you wanted to hear? Continue reading “The Life Underwhelming¬†“