I’m gonna be honest with you: I never took the whole “drugs are bad” thing too seriously. D.A.R.E. was just a day where I got to skip science and listen to cops share horror stories about people feeding their faces to dogs and stuff. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t lining up to shoot cocaine and become some street corner prostitute smoking pole on Friday nights to feed my habit. But I did a little chew in high school, drank plenty, and had my share of fun.

When I got to college, it was one big orgy of every lust and vice you could imagine. I steered clear of Molly and mojitos and Women’s Studies majors, just trying to keep my head down, avoid all the nonsense, and get out with my degree and my dignity.

A friend of mine, a guy named Dodge, was a little more of a rebel than me. He had his fair share of respect for our country, so don’t go thinking he was a total animal. But he got a medical marijuana card from his doctor, “for migraines,” and on weekends he’d toke up. He’d offer me a hit whenever I was hanging out, but I declined.

Except once.

It had been a hellish week. College can be a beast, and I was struggling to keep my grades up while still having time for fun. Dodge saw how stressed I was and got really convincing. I was so stressed I couldn’t study, and it was all starting to feel pointless. So I took a drag on his marijuana cigarette.

Just one, I swear.

But it did something to me. Immediately, this filthy, horrible sensation spread all over my body. Like I was unclean. Impure.

I screamed at Dodge, something incoherent, then ran out of his apartment. I could feel this oily ooze flooding my veins, reaching my heart. I collapsed. Everything went black.

I came back to my senses laying facedown on the sidewalk, my cheek resting in a cold puddle full of silt. Pushing myself back up, I wobbled for a moment before gaining my balance. I felt like there was a dark fog inside of my mind, controlling my thoughts and behaviors.

All these horrific ideas flooded through me. Maybe there aren’t actually microchips in the COVID vaccines. Maybe gun culture in America might be leading to more violence than I’d like to admit. Maybe…

Oh, shit…

Maybe racism actually is still a problem.

I started screaming. I fell to my knees, my knee finding the puddle my face had recently occupied, and as the cold road water soaked into my jeans I kept screaming, tears running down my face. Just one puff of pot, and my life was ruined.

I kept screaming when the police arrived, concerned about how they balance power and control while in a position of authority. I’m afraid I’ll never stop screaming.