Dating a chronic pot smoker law enforcement dating
“I know if I try it, I will like it too much,” I remember saying — perhaps the only smart, true statement I would utter for many years to come.
The hardest friend to lose was a guy I’ll call Kevin. He got me playing guitar, which continues to provide me with happiness and social adventures at the age of 39.
The first tingle of THC hits him as he's stretching his calves.
“I’m locked in,” he says, squishing two headphone buds into his ears.
But unlike the other guys circling Denver’s Washington Park in the early hours, Cliff has just eaten an energy bar that contains enough marijuana to numb a small elephant.
To be precise, the homemade bar was packed with about 30 milligrams of the plant’s psychoactive chemical, tetrahydrocannabinol (THC).
A lattice of tattoos peeks from below his sleeves, and his skin is tanned an even olive brown.
I lost all my high school friends after self-righteously refusing to smoke.