I smoked a joint in a basement when I was 16, sucking the smoke through the neon-colored rubber bands of my braces, coughing hysterically before engaging in my first kiss. Later, I would take turns smoking out of pop bottles with my step-sister in our shared bedroom, separated by a curtain, our respective hideous paint colors clashing in the middle. We would curl up on her twin bed, staring up at the skylight hoping to catch a glimpse of some weird aircraft headed to Selfridge Air Base, which happened to be down the street from where we lived. Other times we hoped we might get abducted by aliens because this was the early 2000s, and aliens were pretty sweet.
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