I’ve always viewed alcohol as the drug of the insecure. A way to shed inhibition and become a looser version of yourself. You, askew. The “you” you want to be, but can’t quite achieve on your own.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I’m all for a glass (or bottle). It’s just not my drug of choice.

I much prefer the introspection of marijuana. Creeping into the weird and winding corners of my brain. Finding comfort there, along with other dear friends: Humor. Peace. Gratitude. Time. Always, time. Where marijuana slows it down, alcohol speeds it up. Nights lost or completely blacked out.

Those rare moments have always left me rattled. Horrified of what could have been. I could have been raped. I could have been killed. I could have driven home drunk and killed someone else.

I say this not to judge the drinkers. I get it. I’ve done it. I’d just prefer to spend my St. Patrick’s Day smoking green instead of wearing it at the bar.