Long ago, I was one of the privileged, unsupervised, suburban teenagers who had infinite access to marijuana and unlimited opportunities to smoke it. Someone, somewhere grew it, harvested it and shipped it our way, and closer to home, someone sold it and someone bought it, but all I knew was that it was everywhere: at school, at parties, at the bus stop.
If an adult asked, we lied about smoking, of course, but we weren't asked often. It was probably inconceivable to our parents that nice kids like us would do anything that wacky. Outside of the occasional art or philosophy teacher, we didn't expect adults to understand, and we viewed their naivete with condescension. We were sure our thoughts, our very existence, were deeper and more profound than their pointless lives of chores and obligations.