Kitty Gray writes about her weed addiction and what lead her to quit over at Vice.
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For the past six years or so, I’ve started my day with the same mantra. I peel my eyes open after an extended battle with the snooze button and pledge, “I’m not going to smoke weed this morning.” The mantra is usually followed by a heartfelt promise to myself that I will spend my day writing, as opposed to floating through the world in a weed haze.
I repeat the mantra steadily as I drag my ass out of bed and over to the staple white Ikea shelf that houses my dearest treasures. A black-and-gold witch medallion that belonged to my grandmother hangs there. A small bejeweled elephant perches on top of the shelf—my best friend acquired him for me during her travels.