Monday, April 20, 2015
an ode to the stoner boys
Posted by saaara
I'm not sure I have an answer, but I will confess that I first fell victim to a stoner boy in high school. Well, multiple stoner boys-- stop judging me, it was the 90s. But there was one boy in particular. He had a skateboard and a hackey sack and a tie-dyed Led Zeppelin T-shirt. I was completely defenseless against his charms. He had long-hair don't care kind of hair. He was practically a teenaged Jim Morrison.
He's the reason I purchased hemp chapstick at a hemp festival. Hell, he was the reason I went to the hemp festival. I felt so cool when I showed off my lip balm at school and let him use some. It was like we were kissing since it had touched both our lips. On three occasions, he even invited me to get stoned with him after school. In hindsight, this should be a little alarming considering I was only fifteen and had to go to my behind the wheel driving class afterwards, but I still look back on those days fondly. I mean, how else would I have seen Friday and Far Out Man? I tried not to take it personally when he would fall asleep during those hang-outs (an occupational hazard to being in love with a stoner).
After our senior year of high school, he announced he was quitting pot and bequeathed his shiny, blue, glass pipe to me. He even got down on one knee when he gave it to me. Okay, I made that last part up, but you get it. It was a big deal. I held on to it for awhile, but lost it at some point. I guess pot is not really my thing. I don't need it. I'm naturally anxious and paranoid.
And sadly, as you get older, the stoner attraction seems to wear off. Suddenly, when you smell pot the first place your mind goes is: "There's a skunk in my backyard!" It's just not the same. What was once attractive and sexy now seems a little lazy and confused and lacking in ambition. Plus, it's really bad for sperm count.
But Happy 4:20 to all the hot stoner boys packing a bowl today and gearing up to watch Half Baked. The sixteen year old me will love you forever. The thirty-four year old me is more like: