Trying to Start a Novel, Again
A beginning of a novel that may or may not survive
This is not me—this is another person talking. A character.
I really hate the smell of weed. I don’t hate it the way I hate the smell of patchouli or Ciara, a perfume from the 1970s that my great aunt wore. The smell doesn’t make me sick, and it doesn’t disgust me — the smell of pot terrifies me. When I smell marijuana I feel like everything is out of control. I don’t mean this in a reefer madness kind of way; I think pot is kind of harmless. I smoke it sometimes and feel everything from apathetic to mildly regretful to “have more interest in life than usual” in an “oh shit” kind of way. But if I get a really strong smell of pot, I feel scared.
I am trying to figure this out. I might have gotten it from somewhere. So — pot makes people paranoid. Googling for five minutes, I have discovered that pot overstimulates the amygdala, a part of the brain that — allegedly? — regulates anxiety. (And maybe this is wrong, it was five minutes.) So the people who don’t get paranoid when they smoke pot, they probably never get paranoid, even when they should, because they think they’re amazing. TLDR: People who like pot love themselves.
When you smell pot and it’s really strong, what you’re essentially smelling is someone who doesn’t know they…
