I woke up on Monday to the undeniable smell of the Wacky Weed in my apartment.
I don’t smoke or otherwise ingest marijuana. I’ve never even smoked a cigarette. I’ve been known to partake in a cigar once in a while (read: about once every 2-3 years), but I usually regret that when I wake up the next day with my mouth tasting like I’d given root-i-lingus to a houseplant. I have very few friends who smoke, aside from the nerds who do e-cigarettes because they are gadgets with blinky lights that taste like vaporized waffles. For the most part, smoking is a thing that doesn’t happen in my life, and it certainly doesn’t happen in my apartment.
Thus, my apartment reeking like an incinerated skunk was uncalled for.
The smell was much stronger in the hallway outside my apartment door. Clearly, someone else in the complex had been partaking, and it was drifting ever-so-unpleasantly into my personal space.
This, my friends, pisses me off.
I don’t particularly care that people are putting illicit substances in their own bodies. I do care when those illicit substances stink, and that they contain lovely carcinogens, and that these stinky carcinogens are wafting into my apartment. Oh, and did I mention that we’re supposed to be living in a smoke-free apartment building?
Folks in the apartment building seem to be very good about going outdoors to smoke the occasional cigarette. I’ve never smelled tobacco smoke inside the building. But weed? Yup. About once or twice a month, my apartment smells like a Pink Floyd concert.
Yeah, I know smoking illegal things outdoors (and across the street from a church) is probably a good way to get arrested, but seriously… fuck you, apartment building weed smokers.
Beyond this incident, I’ve run into other situations where folks seem to not equate weed smoking with smoking. For instance, I was with a bunch of friends in Austin, TX, and we’d been invited to a party. One of our group is allergic to smoke, so she asked if the party would be non-smoking. The hostess assured us that, yes, nobody smokes in the house. Well, we got there, and about 30 minutes later, the hostess herself lights up a joint in the living room. Our group had to leave pretty immediately after that, because our allergic friend’s lungs would not abide such behavior.
I’m still baffled by that one. And that’s not the only incident like that I’ve come across. How in the name of all that is good and logical is weed smoking not smoking? You’re burning stuff, putting it into your lungs, then exhaling it. That, my friend, is a behavior called smoking.
And if you smoke in my apartment building, regardless of the substance, you are an asshole. A stinky asshole.
Here endeth the lesson.