Sometimes, I wonder if I’ll regret that I did not shack up with a really hot pot head during my 20’s, before I settled down. You know, where we would keep weed in a cookie jar, and eat a shit ton of ramen noodles. We wouldn’t do much, but we’d be happy and high, together. We wouldn’t visit our parents very often, but we would go on little hiking trips, and maybe backpack through Oregon. We would sleep on a mattress on the floor, and live with like six dudes. Eventually, it would all come to an end, and I would realize I wanted what I have now. I’m 22, and I already have this fear.