This chair. So soft and comfortable. The perfect place to practice his new hobby. It had many names, but he liked the original name the best. Marijuana. A year ago, he would never have picked up a joint. But, a year ago, he had liked his life.

It had been so close to perfect. But, then the few imperfections grew in number and size, leading him almost to a nervous breakdown. Then, one day he got a call from a friend he hadn't talked to since the previous year. It was an invitation to a party. Because this friend had been so fun then, and he didn't think he could have changed too much, he accepted.

Upon arrival, he knew something was different with his friend. He used to be the T-shirt and jeans type. He still was, but now he wore baggy Jnco's with holes worn into the knees, and Marilyn Manson lyrics scrawled all over them, and a long-sleeved shirt with a pot leaf plastered on the front of it. His hair had been relatively short, practically a buzz cut, but it now hung past his ears, but not quite to his shoulders. It was greasy, a dark brown color. Such a change.

When he walked in the door, a sweet smell filled his nostrils, and he became the slightest bit lightheaded. It was better than the pulsing migraines he usually had. A lot better. Because of this, he simply sat down on the couch in the living room. A few other guys that he didn't know, who looked quite similar to his friend, were gathered around the coffee table in front of him in deep concentration on a small white piece of paper. He knew right away that they were rolling a blunt, or rather, a big joint. Because he was tired, he made no effort to get out of there.

They had offered him a puff. At first he had refused, but after seeing how much they enjoyed it, he decided to give it a try since he had heard you couldn't get addicted with one puff. Whoever said that sure was wrong. Ever since then, marijuana had been the one thing that he wanted, but he couldn't get any. Sure, he could have gone hunting down someone on a street corner, but he would have felt like a criminal then. That, and he wasn't hooked up to get any good deals. Then, his 16th birthday rolled around.

His friend had come by, and had given him a small package. It now sat next to him on his, oh, so comfortable, chair. He opened it to reveal ten pre-rolled joints, and a small lighter. He hoped his sister didn't start crying again. He just wanted peace. His parents, and siblings were at an aunt's house. He had offered to baby-sit, and his parents had accepted the offer. He was glad they did.

He picked the largest of the joints, and placed it lightly between his lips. He clicked the lighter a few times with his thumb, until a small flame appeared. He held it to the end of the joint, and took one breath in. That sort-of familiar feeling washed over him making the rest of the world disappear. He took another puff, and held the marijuana cigarette out to the side of the chair, letting the ashes drop onto the gray carpet rather than the blue upholstery. Then, he blacked out.

He never awoke from his passed out state. His burning joint had slipped from his hands onto a stack of paper filled with lyrics and musical notes. One spark created a fire that licked at everything in the house including the boy and his baby sister. If only he had known that you can't get addicted to marijuana, at least, not physically. Mentally, you can. Because of the pressure placed on him by fellow teens, record executives, and himself, Taylor Hanson turned to drugs as an answer. Drugs won't solve anything, unless you can consider life a problem.

A few days later, his so-called friend was found dead due to a heroin overdose. His family never got over his death, or his sister's death. They weren't angry, but they didn't know about the drugs. They thought faulty wiring had been the culprit that had destroyed their home, and the two lives. If only they had known of his problems. If only he hadn't kept them hidden inside. If only he had remained adamant in his decision not to take drugs. If only......

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