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I can count the number of times I’ve smoked pot on two hands. A very casual smoker, I have only ever partaken by happenstance, when the opportunity was thrust upon me at a get-together among friends. I’ve never paid for it, either. I’ve always thought that someone who buys pot wears the “pot smoker” label, fair or not. Not that I judge pot smokers, because I don’t, at all, but I’d rather not be referred to as one.
The first few experiences I had with pot were pretty awesome. I was happy as fuck. Everything was funny as fuck. Eventually I got hungry as fuck. Then I passed the fuck out. It was a blast. My next few highs were just as great, albeit sparsely spread out over a couple years. Then something happened around finger five on hand one of the “I can count the number of times I’ve smoked pot on two hands.” I had a terrible experience.
During my high, I endured the constant sensation that I was pissing my pants. It was miserable, and it scared the shit out of me (not literally).
After perhaps one too many hits from the pipe, I sat on the couch as the THC danced through my veins and my body and mind settled into pure, unadulterated euphoria. I was high. Very high. I had a blast for the next two minutes. Then I had to take a piss.
“That’s weird. I literally pissed five minutes ago. Oh well, could be fun since I’m high as fuck,” I remember thinking as I made my way toward the bathroom. I paused at the mirror for a quick “let’s see what high-as-giraffe-balls Dillon looks like right now” glimpse, then I stepped up to the toilet, dropped trou, and began to piss. Two drops. That’s all that came out. Two drops. Each one hit the water’s surface loudly and with authority, and personified, as if they were methodically sending me the message that I had to be a special kind of idiot to attempt pissing on an empty tank, and I absolutely, unequivocally, did not need to urinate at the time. Or maybe I only remember it like that because I was so stoned.
Dumbstruck by the single-digit milliliters of liquid that quite literally fell out of the end of my penis, I scowled with confusion, wrote it off as an anomaly, zipped up, then joined my friends in the living room.
I’d soon learn it wasn’t an anomaly. Less than a minute after settling in on the couch, I had to piss again. “There’s no way I really need to piss right now. I just tried to piss. Nothing came out. No piss. Zero piss. Keep it together, man,” I thought while resisting a very real urge to urinate in my pants. The sensation grew unbearable. Like an Olympic-caliber speed walker in the pinnacle of his career, I went from the couch back to the bathroom in 1.8 seconds, attempting to appear unfazed by my newly-discovered stoned-piss problem.
I arrived at the toilet, this time bypassing the usual mirror pause as the situation was too grim for self-admiration. I was 100% confident my bladder housed enough liquid to control a 10-acre forest fire until the fire department arrived on scene. With a strong forward lean and my left hand on the wall in front of me for extra support, I let it rip. Nothing. Not a drop. Shot a blank.
Devastation quickly overcame me. Would I ever piss again? Would I forever feel the need to piss? Should I stop consuming liquid altogether since my piss has nowhere to go? Is the piss somehow evading my urinary tract and finding other ways to exit my body? I was so confused, and still really, really high.
After a brief stare into the mirror and deep into my soul in a failed attempt to make sense of it all, I crept back to the living room to join my high friends, hoping they wouldn’t notice my lifeless body, or the helplessness in my eyes, or the piss running down my leg. “Holy shit! It’s happening! I’m pissing!” I thought amid sheer panic, and with mixed emotions. Half of me was relieved my piss equipment was still working. The other half was horrified that I was pissing myself in front of friends.
In a split-second decision supported by panic, and of course THC, I sprung for the couch and planted myself on it. The thought process behind this terrible decision was that I was trying to hide my piss pants from everyone, and since I felt the piss running down the backside of my leg, this was the best play. When they weren’t looking, I’d run to the bathroom to clean up and grab some fresh drawers. I was in agony, but I didn’t think anyone had noticed yet so it wasn’t a total disaster.
As a friend approached, I reached down with both hands to conceal what I imagined was a large wet spot on my crotch. What I felt would shock me.
I was completely dry. I dug deeper into the crevasse between my legs, feeling around for moisture that was surely there. Nothing yet — still dry. The investigation was not over. What if my boxer briefs had miraculously gained diaper-like qualities and trapped all the piss inside them, leaving me with the appearance of normal, non-piss pants, when the insides would tell a different story? Remember, I was high. I then pulled the front of my pants away from my body with my left hand, and with my right, I reached down, hand-on-flesh, straight to the source, and felt around in search of the swampy environment I knew was there. My friend, also high, couldn’t make sense of what I was doing. I didn’t explain. I had a mystery to solve.
After a thorough search, my investigation had concluded: I didn’t piss my pants. Not even a dribble. I was completely dry.
For the remainder of the evening, which seemed like weeks, I sat in the same spot on the couch, experiencing the constant sensation of pissing my pants. My hands remained on my crotch, serving as a makeshift cork for whenever this seemingly two-ton vat of urine was ready to escape my body.
Hoping this experience was a one-time occurrence, I smoked pot again one month later. The same scenario played out. Then a year later, it happened again. Then again. Even though I’ve never actually pissed myself after smoking pot, the constant threat of it ruins my high and sends me down a bottomless pit of anxiety. I had to stop for good.
And that, my friends, is why my pot-smoking days are behind me.