This, I thought, is this closest I will ever come to doing meth. Friendly rubbed his hands together and fired up the torch. While I generally made my exit after exactly long enough not to appear impolite, I knew better than to say no to drugs. Friendly offered me a dab and said that it was the only way he smoked anymore. While he was happy to deliver, I preferred to go to him-that way I could leave.Īfter selling me a quarter ounce one day, Mr. Friendly, as he called himself, lived in a basement apartment on Capitol Hill with a pirate flag covering the bathroom doorway and black and white striped wallpaper. He wore massive wide-legged jeans that bled water four inches up his pant leg when it rained, and when he rolled up the sleeves of his hoodie, I saw arms covered in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle tattoos. At the time, about a year after recreational shops started to pop up, I bought weed from a thirtysomething dealer whose wardrobe hadn't been updated since high school. My only prior attempt at dabbing was several years ago, before the price of legal weed dropped low enough to convert me to retail. Dabs require an expensive piece of machinery called a dab rig, as well as a butane blowtorch to heat it. Flower requires merely a match and a piece of rolling paper (or, if you don't have that, a pipe, bong, plastic bottle, aluminum can, apple, carrot, or page ripped from a Bible). For this reason alone, they get a large part of my weed budget.ĭabs-along with dance parties, hangovers, and all music-make me feel hopelessly old. Plus, Ponder's happy hour beats most places in town. Located just down the street from Uncle Ike's, Ponder is smaller, friendlier, and less controversial than its neighbor up the hill. To find out, I went for a consultation at Ponder, a pot shop in the Central District. It wasn't time to quit smoking it was time to start smoking smarter. You don't give up on something you love just like that. I should stop smoking, I thought for a second before closing Redfin and coming to my senses. I came to this conclusion recently while looking at real-estate listings and realizing that the only property I can afford is a storage unit in Bremerton. And if I stopped buying all this weed, I could probably even afford a financial adviser. My financial adviser would be appalled at the amount I spend with so little return. Even worse, these days most of that money goes up in smoke-after years of smoking weed all day, every day, I've plateaued. I could have purchased a new double-wide by now, easy. You don't have to be good at math to see that's a lot of money. My expenses have certainly gone up since then, but my weed habit has remained stubbornly the same all these years: $250 a month, every month, forever. This was years ago, when rent was still in the triple digits and instead of buying my weed from a "budtender" named Chad, I bought it from the drag queen up the street. It had the usual entries: rent ($650), utilities ($80), and weed ($250). For a brief time, I kept a spreadsheet of my monthly expenses.
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