Names have obviously been changed to protect the guilty, but I assure you this is all 100% true.
When I was 18, I was part of a small but incredibly tight-knit group of friends; two boys and two girls. Me, Michael, Chloe, and Laura. This is two stories in one, and it’s a little long, but it deserves to be told in its entirety.
The four of us had quickly bonded in our Sixth Form common room over a love of rock music, and spent most weekends with each other in one the small, safe, dull towns in which we all lived. We weren’t big drinkers and we weren’t particularly enamored of drugs, but we were open to experimenting. And one weekend, these factors all combined to change the dynamic of our group forever.
When my parents went out of town and my brother filled the house with his pot-dealing friends it seemed rude not to invite everyone over. Chloe couldn’t make it, but soon Michael, Laura and I were giggling in the garden, stoned to the point that inhibitions were a distant memory and drunk in that way you only get drunk at 18; buzzing off three drinks and convinced you’re the most inebriated person that’s ever lived.