I thought once I moved out of my ghetto house*, I wouldn't have to worry about the police showing up at my home anymore. Well that was certainly naive of me. Let me just preface this story by saying: it turns out marijuana is illegal. I mean, I knew that, but it's one of those things that's so common it doesn't really seem like it's illegal. You know what I mean.
A couple weeks ago my roommate and his girlfriend invited me to smoke some pot with them out on the back step. They do this regularly and couldn't believe I had never been high before. I had nothing better to do so I joined them. They told me I was smoking a watermelon blunt and that I would want to remember this so I could tell any future weed buddies about my first time. I'll also need to know it for when I write the chapter in my memoirs called "Where it all went wrong", a chapter which will begin "So I applied for a job at Walmart...".
I failed at smoking pot. All the inhaling and holding it in and breathing out was terribly complicated. My inability to master Smoking 101 equaled no high. No huge loss. I went back to whatever I was doing and they went to eat Twizzlers and watch Supernatural.
Three days later, they were at it again. But this time a police officer showed up. After telling them a complaint had been made, the officer took their names and information, then searched my roommate's room and confiscated his remaining stash. Although I was home at the time, I was oblivious that all this was going on (I was in my room watching Criminal Minds). As soon as the cop was gone, my roommate filled me in. I saw his girlfriend eye me the way one might eye a nark and it occurred to me they may think I had turned them in. I was quick to blame our neighbours. Their house is very close and fumes could easily waft in their direction. I convinced them that was the most logical explanation. And we all agreed that the call must have come from the house next door, a transitional home for young people with physical disabilities learning how to live independently.
So to sum up, I just narrowly avoided being added to the Halifax Police list of troublesome drug enthusiasts and I may have started a war with our physically disabled neighbours.
*I use the term "ghetto house" not because of the house's physical location but because I had to keep a lock on my cutlery drawer and homeless people often came over to take baths.
