I met my husband in Berkeley in the early 2000s. I was a quasi-hippy with long blonde hair, and he was a stoner with thick black curls and glasses. I was earnest and idealistic; he was smart and funny and sometimes fantastically dark. We had many differences that made for interesting conversations and great sex.
Soon, I realized that weed occupied more space in his life than an occasional indulgence. No time or activity was off-limits; not mornings, or work time, or therapy, or hours spent working on his grad school essays. It was a passion, a way of life. And a crutch.
I liked weed also, but in those days alcohol’s familiarity appealed more than the unpredictable experiences that resulted from whatever stuff he bought on the street. No one I knew was talking about strain names, or THC to CBD ratios, or even the now-outdated sativa/indica differences. Lab testing was unheard of for the recreational user and the growing conditions behind the weed you could get your hands on was…
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