I have always been terrible at rolling joints.
There’s something about the combination of balance, coordination, and multitasking that puts joint-rolling somewhere between juggling and the ability to play “Malagueña” on guitar on the list of skills I know I will never develop. Maybe it’s because—as with the aforementioned proficiencies—I simply haven’t put the hours in. Or maybe it’s because on my best, soberest day, I have the manual dexterity of a teddy bear.
Throw in the bonus disorientation of being stoned, and my joint-rolling attempts look like a battlefield after the saddest skirmish: rolling papers crumpled and rent from multiple failed tries, shake scattered everywhere, and there, in the position of honor, a weird, misshapen slug with wounds in its sides that won’t draw and crumbles like a sand castle if you even look at it…
