A Radically Condensed History of My Weed Dealers (Illustrated)

Illustrations and anecdotes about the wonderful pushers in my life.

I grew up in Manhattan and went to college in the Midwest; so I could never obtain weed legally, but I’ve always been someone who’s had a vested interest in doing drugs, which means I’ve always smoked weed and been friends with stoners.

These are the stories of my wacky and wonderful weed dealers.


Miz was my high-school weed dealer. Even though I only bought from him once or twice, I spent most of my sophomore and junior years mooching off my friends, Diane—whose mom let us smoke weed and cigarettes inside their apartment—and Courtney—the daughter of an important government official—who were quite close with Miz. We met Miz because he lived in the housing projects that enveloped our elite public high school, located on the Lower East Side. Our school was somewhat racially self-segregated: Half of the students coming from wealthier, often white families; the other half from the surrounding housing projects. What brought my crew together wasn’t ultimately privilege, but love of drugs.

Miz—along with our smattering of coke and pill dealers, and the good folks who produced original formula Four Loko—kept our group bonded. We often hung out with Miz during our free periods. I was the uppity one of the group, preferring uppers to downers and thus more interested in having a speed-induced anxiety attack about my homework than hanging out with a rando drug dealer, but I always remember thinking Miz was fundamentally nice. 

One year for Halloween, Miz wore a pot on his head and said “Guess what I am?” Silence. “I’m a pothead.” I have unending admiration for a full-time drug dealer who dresses up as a pothead for Halloween. Like, that’s dope.


Miz was part of a larger drug ring that was called something like “Dirty Money Crew.” They printed their name on lighters that were also bottle openers. When Miz handed me one, I said in my nerdy 16-year-old New York Jew girl voice, “A lighter with a bottle opener!? How convenient!”


I went to a small midwestern super progressive liberal arts school. We have a famous alumni who went on to create a show on a premium cable channel with a title that rhymes with “Hurls.” What I’m trying to say is that everyone I went to school with loved weed, like a lot.

I met Sam my sophomore year. We lived on the same floor of a co-op, our school’s version of a frat, except it was co-ed and we made all our decisions using a consensus-based form of governance. Also, all our meals were kale, lentils, and mushy rice.

I loved living in the co-op, and a lot of that had to do with Sam. Sam was the ex-boyfriend of my new friend Jennifer. Soon I became closer with Sam. He dealt weed mostly because he was bored and the type of person who liked to do things just because they were against the rules. He smoked so much of his own stash that he didn’t even make a profit from dealing.

Sam and I had a lot in common. We were both clinically depressed, always down to do drugs, and becoming increasingly reclusive. We spent many evenings sitting on the floor of my room, drinking cheap beer provided by me, and smoking Sam’s weed, which he kept in a giant mason jar in his room.

I soon fell in love with Sam. Madly, deeply, obsessively in love. I knew nothing could ever happen because I was friends with Jennifer. She was the type who would murder me if I ever touched Sam. Over the course of a month and a half or so, all I did was think about Sam and try to hang out with him as much as possible.

A great thing about weed is that it can really suck the tension out of any given room. 

Sam was pretty game to hang out. We’d sit in our room, getting stoned together. Sam, who could be defined by his music snobbery and his disconcerting stoicism, would talk to me about his feelings. Two of Sam’s anecdotes are forever burned into my brain:

1. When Sam smoked weed for the first time, he was with his then-girlfriend and her cat. They blew smoke in the cat’s face and mouth, forcing the poor animal to get blazed as fuck. (Obviously this is cruel, but at the time I probably said to him, in a girlish voice, “Oh my god, that’s like so awful, but also like, so funny!”)

2. One summer, Sam would go to a Barnes & Noble during his lunch break at work and steal books. He did that every day. Once when he was there, he needed to pee. When he went to the bathroom, he peed all over the floor, just because he knew someone else would have to clean it up.


Eventually Sam and I did end up making out, and months later having sex. A painful amount of social unrest was tied up in the whole thing. Eventually, we stopped talking, and I had to find another supplier…


Ricky was my best friend’s boyfriend, a truly kind and painfully troubled soul. He came from an upper crust family, but had parents who seemed like quasi-insane monsters, which meant he sold weed and worked as a barista to make his way through school. Also, every time he’d get off the phone with either of them, he’d openly weep. Ricky was known for his drinking problem and always being the last one to leave parties.

I was always struggled with how much I liked Ricky. I hung out with him a lot because he dated my bestie and because he was my weed dealer. I always felt an extreme amount of empathy for Ricky: He was a year younger than me and experienced many of the same problems with addiction I had. I’d often get wasted and lecture him about sobriety. Ah, college!

A great thing about weed is that it can really suck the tension out of any given room. After I graduated, I found myself roaming through Europe alone, sans weed and experiencing the worst general anxiety of my life. Ricky and our friend William came to visit me in Stockholm. Swedish drug laws are absurd and place marijuana in the same class as heroin and cocaine, which meant it was very difficult and very unwise for American tourists to try to blaze.

So I spent three of the tensest days of my life with Ricky and William. We didn’t go out much because a beer at a club in Stockholm costs like $15. We sat in my apartment, drinking duty-free hard liquor, Ricky crying and complaining about his family, William and I irate and uncomfortable. Ricky also had the loudest hacking cough that grew worse and worse because he refused to stop smoking cigarettes. It’s not like we didn’t feel for Ricky, we really did, but when Ricky wasn’t complaining about his family situation, he was correcting everything William or I said. Ricky would pick petty fights with me about some detail of New York City living—like which subway line to take to hypothetically get to a certain place—that would usually end in me saying something like, “Fuck off. You’re not even from New York.”

At that moment, we all really needed a deep breath and a blunt.

The last thing I’ll say about Ricky is that he’s the only person who I’ve ever fantasized about murdering in a visceral, detailed, real way. Late one night, when I was unable to sleep because of his hacking cough, I imagined myself getting the sharpest knife in the kitchen and repeatedly stabbing him in the heart. I’m sorry, Ricky. I know you mean no harm.

My mom

I became a real life stoner bitch after I graduated from college. It’s all thanks to my mother. We hadn’t had the best relationship while I was at school. She’d always get mad at me for being in a drugged out, drunken stupor or a hungover stupor. We fought a lot.

Things had calmed down by the time I graduated. I stopped doing hard drugs. In lieu of binge drinking, snorting Adderall, and ending my night with an Ambien, I found myself not going out at all. Instead, I’d smoke weed with my mom.

Smoking weed with my mom—who was my supplier at the time—was how I fell in love with weed. After years of fighting and not feeling close with her, we’d get blazed out of our minds, having adolescent stoner conversations in the vein of: “How the fuck did someone invent electricity? That seems insane to me.”

The best stoner thing my mom’s ever said to me is: “You know what I think of alcohol? Alcohol is a demon drug. The world would be a better place if everyone just smoked weed. Everyone would be so chill.”


Eventually I surpassed my mother in stoner bitch status. She could no longer be the middle man between me and my weed. I had to go directly to her supplier, or her friend Susan. Susan is a suburban mom. She has a teenage daughter and a minivan. She lives in Connecticut. Her weed is organic.

Susan deals because she has a true love and devotion to marijuana. She smokes daily. She even told me she’s smoked with her teenage daughter before, but her daughter “doesn’t really like it.”

As much as I wanted to support Susan, especially because selling weed is her primary income, I eventually had to move on when I found the best delivery service around…

The 420 Girls

Weed delivery services in NYC, despite their lack of legality, have been pretty well-documented with this article in the Huffington Post and in the web series High Maintenance.

Over the summer I was introduced to a service I’ll call “The 420 Girls.” After texting them a coded message, one of them comes to your apartment, carrying a briefcase of all the weed you could desire. The woman who comes to your apartment is almost always well-dressed and beautiful. The interactions are always uncomfortable. I’m usually a frizzy-haired mess sporting loose sweatpants and giant bags under my eyes.

The 420 Girls taught me about the vast differences between indica and sativa. (Turns out I’m a sativa girl, like hardcore.) Their strains also have amazing names—names that I’m sure you Californians have seen before—like Dank Sinatra, Green Crack, and Berry White.

After the emotional turmoil I felt with my past weed dealers, the 420 Girls are a breath of fresh air. And until I move to place with more lax marijuana laws, I’ll be sticking with them.

*All names and identifying details have been changed to protect the identities of those mentioned here because of, you know, the illegal activity and whatnot. I’m the only one brave enough to use my real name. I am so brave. An American hero if you will.