What better way to be a teenage rebel than smoking tea?
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I woke up one morning and thought, “I should really rebel.” Because I hadn’t. I was seventeen years old but had never drank, never smoked, never had any hot… chocolate.
I had an obsessive need to be good all the time. But on this morning I thought to myself, “If I never rebel I might go crazy and do something horrible. So I’ll rebel today, but in a safe, controlled manner.”
I decided to smoke some tea. I’d seen the counselors do it at church camp when I was younger. Of course they’d been ratted out by this total narc. (Me.) Our upstairs washroom seemed the safest place for my rebellion. My parents hardly ever went in there. It was well ventilated. I could flush away illicit materials, like Earl Grey.
I didn’t have any rollies so I used a sheet of 8 1/2 x 11 inch paper. The whole sheet of paper. I’d never even seen someone roll a joint before, which is an accomplishment — I’m from British Columbia.
I rolled the paper into a large cone shaped tube, ripped open a bag of tea, poured in the contents, then twisted the open end shut. I didn’t have matches or a lighter so I ran downstairs, ripped off a strip of newspaper, pushed the handle down on the toaster, and stuck the paper in. But it didn’t light, just smoldered a little, so I used the element on our stove and it lit great. (Too great.)
Flames burst up towards the ceiling. I threw the inferno onto a dinner plate and ran towards the upstairs washroom, tufts of burning paper flying off and floating to the carpet. Which also lit great. The carpet was on fire. (That is disconcerting.)
I stamped frantically until I was sure the carpet was out. But by that time the newspaper was ashes.
I tried again, this time using way more newspaper, walking slowly, and holding a bowl over the flames so that none would escape. It worked. I made it to the washroom. But the joint wouldn’t light — I’d twisted it too tightly. So I ripped it in half, lit the ripped end and inhaled the smoke.
But the tea hadn’t lit. Wouldn’t light. It was cheap so it wasn’t leaves. It was just these little pellets. I was inhaling the smoke of burning, bleached, 8 1/2 inch paper covered in ink and white out. I hadn’t used a new sheet of paper. Rebelling or not, that just seemed a waste.
On my third attempt I simply lit a bag of tea and wafted the smoke into my mouth. But I didn’t inhale. I didn’t know I was supposed to.
The sound of my parents pulling up the driveway! I scrambled to douse the tea, throwing it and the ashes into a plastic bag. I frantically brushed my teeth and made myself look presentable. But I was kind of screwed — the air was rank, the carpet up the stairs was singed in two places, one of our better dinner plates had burn marks all over it and, to top it all off, I was high. It turns out that inhaling the smoke of a grade 10 socials paper on the Red River Uprising gets you high.
Teen rebellion? Close enough.
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