Iâ€™ll admit it; I hate the highs.
Some friends keep telling me that if I just get to know one or two â€“â€“ if I start to understand what being high means â€“â€“ Iâ€™ll learn to accept them, even like them. Itâ€™s natural, they say; being high is just an alternative lifestyle that about 20 percent of people canâ€™t help but live.
But the more time I spend around highs, the more I want to jam their oh-so-sticky icky-icky nugs of that greenery down my throat in a strange and ineffective attempt to choke myself to death.
And with 4/20 looming on the horizon tomorrow, I can feel the waves of anti-high bigotry beating against my panicked brain while the desire to suffocate on medical-grade mary jane wells up in my gut.
Itâ€™s not that Iâ€™m anti-weed. If you follow my column youâ€™ll know I advocate for the full legalization of all drugs. But those stoners, man, they really put me in a bad headspace.
So in a strange and ineffective attempt to quell my strange and ineffective attempts at sativa suffocation, hereâ€™s my short, cathartic list of why I hate the highs:
â€œThat 70s Showâ€ sucks without the sound on
This, I truly, truly, truly, truly donâ€™t understand. And I understand most things.
Yes, everyone loves â€œThat 70s Showâ€ with its witty teen/early-20s humor and that oddly hot redheaded chick. But making this show silent doesnâ€™t improve anything except for Ashton Kutcherâ€™s voice.
Few experiences in my life have caused me more mental anguish than spending endless hours sinking into dirty couch cushions while some baked dudes cackle their craniums off at soundlessly swishing 70s-style haircuts.
My horror only intensified when their munchies set in, and I was forced to watch people desperately scrounge through the cushion-gaps for old pieces of popcorn.
Which brings me to my next point:
Stay out of my pantry, man
You know the only things in my cabinets are cans of kidney beans and packets of ramen noodles, but that doesnâ€™t stop you, does it?
Mi casa, ainâ€™t su casa, and just because you have the munchies doesnâ€™t mean itâ€™s chill to dig through my food.
Maybe that makes me uncool, and maybe it makes me uptight, but without my beans and noodles, malnutrition lurks right around the corner.
And I donâ€™t care how much pot you smoke, eating my mustard off my fork canâ€™t really be that satisfying. But that brings me to my next point:
Stop talking about weed
At least itâ€™s hard to rant about weed with a mouthful of junk food. Because I get it: Your weed is dank, itâ€™s bomb and itâ€™s dope. And I know: Your weed is sticky, itâ€™s green and smells very strongly of â€¦ weed.
Woo hoo! I donâ€™t care. Iâ€™ve heard it before. A lot. Today.
And the thing is, no matter how good you think your ganja is, not everything involving weed is fun or funny.
No, it wouldnâ€™t really be amusing to turn your friendâ€™s head into a bong. No, it wouldnâ€™t be cool to make a bong out of your Xbox. And no, apple bongs arenâ€™t that awesome either.
I thought I had plenty of other reasons, but excessive secondhand smoke during those sickening 70s show sessions has rendered my memory pretty much useless (if not my alliteration skills), which, now that I think about it, is another pretty good reason to hate the highs.
But now that my therapeutic rant is coming to an end, Iâ€™m feeling much better, so Iâ€™ll let that one go and use my last line to spread some good will and cheer:
Happy 4/20 holiday hereafter, highs. Stay out of my house.
Jim Sojourner is a senior journalism major. His column appears Tuesdays in the Collegian. Letters and feedback can be sent to email@example.com.