Pot. Herb. Ghanja. Dope. Mary Jane. Rope. Stink Weed. Ditch Weed. Sugar Weed. Wacky Weed. Sweet Lucy. Spliff. Cannabis. Marijiana. Weed.

Let’s talk about weed. A real talk, not one of those weed-is-evil-and-no-one you-know-has-ever-used and if you do it’s only a matter of time before you’re living under a bridge pushing a shopping cart (which, I will point out, would be incredibly difficult for you given the amount of clothing and other detritus you seem to have accumulated.)

I want to write you the truth because you already know the “no one has ever used” speech is crap and if I leave you to figure everything out on your own you’ll just ask your friends -- whose sum of information comes from only slightly less clueless older brothers and sisters or the internet – which is a three car garage stuffed by hoarders. There may be some truth buried in the internet about weed, but you’d have to clean off ferret droppings to find it. Why I, or any other parent, would leave on your own to think this through is beyond me because you lack the resources to get real information. So here goes. Just say no. Just kidding. Ha ha. Little parental humor for you there.

Anyway, a doctor/writer friend of some renown pointed out to me once that it’s completely natural to want to change your mental state. He asked, “why do you think little kids spin around or swing or jump around? They want to play with cognition, it’s completely normal.” He has a point. That he said this to me while he was, himself, at the moment, intoxicated is not relevant.

So it’s not crazy to want to experiment with your cognitive state.

And I know you’re curious – you told me you’ve already seen a few kids get booted from college and your old school for smoking weedand getting caught. So you’re probably thinking, “why would they risk getting kicked out of school unless that weed thing is fun?”

And you already know I wrote a book with “marijuana” in the title, so you’re aware that I’ve inhaled.

So here’s the bottom line.

There are three kinds of marijuana smokers.

Visitors. There are the ones that smoke occasionally and for whom it’s a visit to a strange place. They may spend time giggling, and likely eat too much food, and end up a bit paranoid. Maybe even “wicked” paranoid, as we used to say. They may have fun physical sensations and get disoriented about time – but nothing too far beyond their experience to be frightening, and then, the next day they probably feel wiped out, kind of down and have minor memory issues. They may even say to themselves, “that’s what all the excitement is about?”

Then there’s the Regulars. These tend to be folks for whom weed is an anti-anxiety medication. It soothes their worries, they see the world differently when they smoke, and they maintain function. They smoke all the time – they may even “wake an bake” which means smoking first thing in the morning instead of coffee. With the exception of the smoker’s hack – a cough -- and their crappy memory-- you can’t usually tell who these people are because they are entirely functional. I’ve known hikers and small plane pilots and teachers who smoke regularly and seem to pull it off (though I wish I’d never met the pilot because I wasn’t trustworthy even with a popcorn popper when stoned but that story is for some other time).

But some of them convert to a third type.

Stoners. These are folks whose lives have slowed, and then stopped. For them, smoking weed results in gravity turning up -- it takes enormous effort for them to do anything, so they don’t. Ambition – even once fierce ambition -- evaporates and a creeping sadness replaces it. They sleep too much, hygiene sucks, they can’t remember what they did yesterday even though it’s exactly the same as what their doing today -- and they begin to look like a BEFORE photograph in some twisted makeover reality show.

Oh yeah, Bus-Riders. Okay, right, there’s a fourth type too -- for a small number of people, weed is just a bus stop on the quick road to harder, more immediately dangerous stuff, but you and I aren’t talking about heroin or cocaine or PCP or their latest derivatives because it’s the same as jumping in front of a car, only slightly less efficient. Oh, by the way, if I catch you with that stuff – or prescriptions – I’ll take you to the police myself, and when you get out you will find that I’ve taken everything out of your room including your door and bed – and you’ll slowly earn them back over the next year with meetings and drug tests. Doubt. Me Not.

OOooops, sorry, I got lost there in my own horrid little parental fantasy. Where were we? Oh yeah. Weed.

Unfortunately, before you inhale from your first joint, it’s impossible to know which group you’ll be in. Everyone thinks they’ll be a visitor the first time, but you never know. You’ll notice I haven’t even mentioned getting kicked out of school, driving when stoned, or other legal outcomes – just pay attention in your own world and you’ll notice the consequences yourself.

But of course, no matter what you decide. I’ll be here. If you ever need me, you just call and I’ll come get you, no matter where you are or how high you are.

And I’ll try to remember not to tweak you out by taking advantage of your paranoia when I get there.

**If you enojoyed this essay, you'll love the book, "Mom's Marijuana."**

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