#weedstories

So I was about 17 when I went to NY alone for the first time and stayed at a Friends for the craziest two weeks of my life so many stories from the trip but I’ll stick to this one

Me and my friends went over to this guys house who had a backyard barn sort of house

And in this “barn” there was a room on the roof it was like a little nook but the guy pimped it out and made it like his smoking room

So in order to get up there you had to climb up this sketchy flimsy ladder the type of ladder where it’s just tubes

mind u I’m AFRAID of heights and this ladder looked slippery AF in the icy cold New York winter

So I climbed it and when I got up there we all chilled and smoked and I got HIGH AF and it was time to climb down

And obviously I’m the last one to come down and I was

SCARED OUT OF MY MIND

The worst part was that you really couldn’t see where your feet are going so I had to actually depend on my Friends that told me where to put my feet

My asshole Friends start telling me about the story of a girl who slipped and fell from the ladder and had to get surgery and I was ready to die at this point

I cling on it like my life depended on it ( it did) and got down ever so slowly

by Vile Murk or whatever version of me existed in 2015

Let me take you back to one of those in-between eras—either the last year of high school or what I like to call the “gap year of loaf.” You know the one. You’ve graduated, but you’re just floating. No real plans yet, no real rush either. Just life in a sort of hazy, transitional purgatory. That’s when weed first entered the picture for me—not in a wild or cinematic way, just a casual offer that turned into a lifestyle shift.

The first time I smoked, I felt absolutely nothing. Rookie mistake—I definitely wasn’t inhaling right. I think I just held it in my mouth like I was afraid of it. But the first time I actually got high? Whole different story. I remember staring at a light—just a regular-ass ceiling light—and thinking thoughts that didn’t even make sense. Just muttering “damn” to myself like I had unlocked the secrets of the universe. Then came the walk home. Normally a 25-minute trek, it felt like a pilgrimage. Two hours long in my head. I was behind this lady with a suitcase and for some reason that suitcase became like… a metaphor or a mirage? I don’t know. But I couldn’t stop staring at it like it was telling me something.

High school also had its little classic stoner movie moments. One that lives rent-free in my head is the time me and my homie came back from lunch—clearly high, no question. Her eyes were red as hell, mine probably looked like I had just been crying through a breakup scene in a rom-com. We walk back into the school, enter the forum, and boom—Spanish class awaits. And that’s when it happened. Our Spanish teacher, who was an absolute smokeshow—like, way too fine to be working at that school—stops us in the hallway. She looks at us, smirks a little, and just says, “You two have similar eyes.”

That’s all she said. Nothing more, nothing less. But to me and my homie? That was everything. It was like she knew exactly what was up but chose not to blow our cover. Just dropped the most casual, coded message like, “Yeah, I see you.” I’ll never forget her—mainly because she had that kind of unbothered hotness where she didn’t even know she was a baddie. The type that could’ve been cast in a CW show and wouldn’t have blinked twice.

From there, weed just became part of the routine. At first it was just smoking with friends, passing joints in parks, rooftops, basements—wherever the sesh could live. Then came the day I decided to cop for myself and got introduced to my first real dealer. Dude was like a weed mentor, trying to teach me to be discreet. This was long before legalization. I remember hotboxing my closet and getting caught by my mom, trying to convince her that it must’ve been a skunk outside or that I didn’t know what she was smelling. Like she didn’t raise me with functioning nostrils.

Then came my little dispensary job in the city. It was off-the-books, paid in cash, and lowkey sketchy. Every shift felt like I was stacking paper and dodging fate. My spot actually did get raided once—but on my day off. Pure luck. Felt like I was living in an HBO special.

Now? I’ve mellowed out. Still smoke, still indulge in an infused Rizzler when the moment feels right, but I’m not deep in that stoner lifestyle like before. Those early days though—those long walks, Lil Ugly Mane nights, closet hotboxes, Spanish class walk-of-shames—those were the roots. Just a kid figuring things out in a smoky blur. I’ve got more stories, maybe I’ll share ‘em in the next post.