High Romance: Perils of a Single Stoner Chick

I’m a single woman, and a stoner—there, I’ve said it. I always own up to it early on; I stopped trying to put on a squeaky-clean face for dates years ago, when I realized I would never give up weed “for the right guy.” The right guy will have to be cool with it.

To me, being a stoner girlfriend seems like all upside. I am really hard to provoke. Anything you do wrong, you can usually make it up to me with a cupcake (vanilla-vanilla, please). Rub my back and I’ll forget my name, let alone why I was mad 10 minutes ago. I’m more laid back than Snoop Dogg in a La-Z-Boy. Plus, boobs!

Of course, upon finding out that I smoke weed, new acquaintances make assumptions about the kind of guy I’m into. “You’re single, right? Well, then, you should totally meet my friend [insert name]. You guys would be great together! He’s a stoner, too!”

Ay, Cupid. Slow your roll. Chances are, we wouldn’t be great together. With few exceptions, I think stoners generally shouldn’t date each other. Why not? Well, let’s un-pack the bowl:

Admittedly, this is a personal preference, but if you’ve even casually “checked out the talent,” you might spot a trend: as a generalization, stoners don’t appear to take personal grooming all that seriously. I’m in no position to judge—the lion’s share of my personal hygiene regimen involves baby wipes—but that’s exactly why I need my partner to have standards high enough to shame me into showering more than twice a week.

Related topic: stoner “fashion” – Don’t bring it into my house or my field of vision. I want a grown man with regular clothes, not a Trustafarian Ken doll. (I’d opine on dreads, but I don’t have the word count.)

While stoned, I might have a major revelation about the world, my place in it, and how to fix everything. I know that because it has happened somewhere between 37 and 2,576 times, roughly. So I need a witness to these epiphanies to help me recognize whether I just solved world hunger, or I’m just high. Also would be great if you can offer relief from the Great Dorito Famine of Last Tuesday Night.

I’m a straight woman, and in any heteronormative domestic arrangement, certain key responsibilities tend to default to us. For instance:

  • Make plans to leave house
  • Remember to write down said plans and tell partner
  • Know vaguely what day/time it is
  • Wear “outside clothes”
  • Not get the dog stoned
  • etc.

Noble aspirations, to be sure—I’m exhausted coming up with that list. I can’t take all that on! My plate is full. (Of Doritos, hopefully.)

So. Ideal guy? Simple enough: he 1) plans occasional nights out (and enjoys nights in); 2) thinks I’m hilarious (both stoned and stone cold); and 3) is Idris Elba. (Tweet me!)

 

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