I lost my weed cherry to a joint. Second time, joint as well. But I choose to push that into the back of my mind and favor the third time I smoked. Out of some kind of 2-liter soda bottle with a pen stem and apple bowl. At a high school teacher's house that somehow my friend and I were house-sitting. (?!!!?!)
I'll have to hit up my old high school friend and ask her how the fuck we ended up in that situation. But it's a true story on my grandmama's grave. The teacher had all kinds of old hippie albums in the TV console (heh. It was 1986.): The Byrds, Dylan, Hendrix, the Mamas and the Papas (OY VEY.)
Naturally, we invited some guys over and had a mini-party in the borrowed suburban house. How the hell did we get a pass to house-sit this woman's crib? I have no idea. Actually, now that I flex my rarely-used memory muscles, I think my friend was the one charged with the house-sitting. The teacher was way uptight and upright so I can't imagine that she would have entrusted me with her keys. Good times. And that apple bowl worked a charm.