Playing around with the beginning of an essay

The first time I got high was in college. Specifically, the University of California, Santa Barbara, 1995, and even more specifically, in Kim and William’s living room. Kim and William basically spearheaded the Daily Nexus newspaper on which I served as an editor – she as editor in chief and he as editor emeritus and general alcoholic layabout – so it made sense that they had joined forces in the bedroom as well.

Then there was the issue of the Nexus parties. While attendance was not required, it was highly encouraged, kind of like the printed readers we bought at Kinko’s and Isla Vista Bookstore. Miss a party and you were missing the essence of the work that was done at the Nexus: drinking. And, as it turns out, smoking as well.

“Landa,” Nick said, “you’re a virgin.”

How did he know?

The stereo was pumping out Hall and Oates’ “You Make My Dreams”; whether this was irony we might never know.

“We can fix that,” he said, and handed me what I quickly recognized as a joint. I was proud of my own sophistication here. I was also 20 years old and a real dumbass.