I can’t smell pot. No, that’s not exactly true–I can smell something, but I can never identify it. Now, I should be able to. I’ve lived in a pretty near constant haze of pot smoke for almost a year (second hand, for the record), so it isn’t like I’ve never come across it before. There is just something in my brain that can’t identify it. I’ve been like that my whole life. For the last several days, I was wandering around the house trying to identify the skunky odor there seemed to be around. I sniffed closets. I sniffed clothes. I sniffed outside the window and I just couldn’t figure out where it was coming from. I wandered after my son asking him, “Sweetie, do you have a little bit of gas? Did you toot?” Being four, he’ll readily accept ownership of odd smells, so he’d say, “Yes, mommy,” and I’d give him a glass of water.
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