A lesson learnt about romanticising the loser/stoner:
I have this distinct memory of being 15 years old and watching Mallrats for the first time. I soon became obsessed. I’d watch the Jay and Silent Bob films almost daily. It wasn’t the college humour or over-used stereotypical stoner jokes that pulled at the strings of my young heart; it was the talkative Jay’s sweet golden tresses. Something about his permanently reddened half-baked eyes, raspy voice, adorably rosy lips and the blonde hair poking out under his black beanie was extremely appealing to me. I became infatuated. I would plaster pictures of a Led Zeppelin-era Robert Plant around my room, watch Dazed and Confused and Lords of Dog Town almost religiously, and try to get my little suburban teen hands on the green substance (which, often times, did not lead to very positive experiences).
I think the romantic obsession had part to do with the fact that stoner culture could not have been more foreign to me. I was a nerdy Jewish virgin living in the suburbs. I dreamed of the day when a beautiful stoner with golden locks would whisk me away, so we could get high on his bed and listen to renditions of ‘Hey Joe’ by Jimi Hendrix on repeat.
Years passed, and I still held on to this adolescent fantasy, despite (or perhaps because of) never having managed to play it out.
Until I did.
A few months ago I began dating this boy. He was the exact representation of my ~~teen dream~~. He was 22, in a rock band…most importantly, he had long blonde hair reminiscent of the young Jason Mewes, and was of course a fan of the smoked plant. I felt as though the universe had heard my adolescent cries and sent to me exactly what I had wished for. Harry* would take me to his gigs, have sex with me all the time and best of all would smoke pot with me! Awesome!
Except, not so awesome. The drugs seemed to become a kind of sad and boring distraction from the realisation that his droningly head-banging music may not actually be a realistic career prospect. Yes, he had blonde hair, but it was weirdly balding and scraggly, kind of like a young Riff Raff from Rocky Horror, if Riff Raff took acid and watched Adventure Time. It’s also questionable that he took such a liking to a girl young enough to actually relate to the drama on Degrassi – a true symptom of “peter-pan-itus”.
Despite the clear warning signs, I stuck with him a little longer. I thought I was mad cool and bohemian having sex on various musty futons draped in Indian scarves with a bong digging into my back, Harry awkwardly trying to finger me with his crusty scabbed bassist fingers. Unfortunately, this also meant I spent all my time hanging out with his friends who were in bands and were “so cool”, listening to their baked rants about how lame everyone else is, sitting around their apartments while they lit incense, closed their eyes and meditated to Tame Impala and Joy Division. It wasn’t long until I began to feel like Lindsay in Freaks and Geeks when they’re lying stoned on the couch eating chips. Lindsay says to Nick “I thought you said this was supposed to be fun,” and Nick just lies there and says, “Yeah this is fun!”
Anyway, eventually we broke up. The ignored warning signs all culminated in an emotionally-fuelled late night drunken abusive text message conversation. I may or may not have drunkenly hassled of one his many friends with the same name as a Bratz doll name at a club a few weeks after the break up, and I may or may not have thrown up all over said club. Even if losing your virginity to a bassist in a warehouse seems cool at the time, the half-hearted fb message “Soz for leading you on, I was just having fun” is totes not worth it.
*Not his real name