The Art of Rolling a Joint

Rolling a joint seems fairly straight-forward, but it’s one of the hardest and clumsiest things people try to do. Mostly because it’s a skill people don’t practice frequently enough.

Do you remember the first time you tried to roll a joint? You thought it would be fairly straightforward: You are, after all, a person who learned to drive on freeways and bake cakes (not at the same time), a person who has built objects using instructions in another language (Ikean), a person who can get baked and bang out 30-page papers on German Expressionism (a topic invented solely to be cloaked in student-brain BS, but still, pretty good essay, brah). Obviously you can make stuff into a cylinder and light it on fire.

You never considered that there might be an origami aspect to rolling a joint, a frustrating and covertly dehumanizing feeling that creeps in when you’re un-sticking a Zig-Zag for the 70 billionth time: Is this supposed to be so hard? Putting some weed in some paper? You had not accounted for the gluey mess that splits open like a wet paper grocery bag, the hard stare of the greedy would-be smokers, the passage of time marked by the slow, dialogue-heavy movie droning in the background. A joint cannot be rolled apologetically. It requires a truly flat surface, a desk lamp, and some tools (a sharp thing, a slice of heavyweight paper). Your palms must remain dry.

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