I used to really love smoking pot. It was occasional in high school, and soon became a multiple times daily thing in college. I never liked to go to class baked, but I was sure as hell firing up a bowl when I'd taken care of my shit for the day. I took a job my junior year entirely to keep myself in pot and beer and smokes.

Graduated college and kept on going. Now I'd get home from work, make a drink and fire up a bowl or two. I was certainly going to bed baked if it was an option.

Then it got harder. To find, to make time for. The little seeds of "I am fucking up" started being pervasive in what I thought about while baked. I found myself having a handful of mixed drinks AND a couple bowls every day. I was still smoking cigarettes at the time. Getting baked was just three hours of worrying about getting caught and arrested or other arbitrary existential dread. And then getting to work at 7AM while pretty burnt is not a great time, but I persisted.

One day I finally tracked down my pot guy, who I didn't know that well anyway. I drive over to this condo. I'd never been there for more than five minutes and I hated how obvious what was going on seemed. He weighs out my 8th or whatever, and his wife comes in with their infant daughter.

I know it's just pot, I still don't think it's very harmful. But the whole idea of going to my weed guy's place and being like "Yo, hey baby!" just totally sank the ship for me.

I think that was the last time I bought pot. I've smoked a handful of times since, but I just finally outgrew it. Every time I've done it since I've hated it.

True but unrelated story. Weed guy's wife turned out to be an actual junky. I think they lost the kid. I didn't even know she used until she went to rehab. My buddy that hooked me up with weed guy told me she was a junky and I assumed he meant "shopping junky," because it was so far out of my expectation. Nope. Actual junky.