That One Light, That One Walk, and Everything Since – A Weed Memoir (Kind Of)
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.
For now, picture me walking into the sunset, blunt in hand, head full of thoughts, and just enough THC in my system to make the sky look a little more purple than usual.
