Tim Dillon, friend of the show.

"I respect it when someone turns up and they're scratching, because they're on opiates."

Weed, friend of the show

12:42 I remember the first time I watched this I was trippin BAD it was so serious yet so funny I loved this one

I can't believe he's not more famous.

"embrace the Sackler family" is crazy 😂

HE DESERVES 8!!!!

Your father was wrong you're doing what nobody can do ❤

reefer madness, friend of the show

Kathleeeeeeennnn 😂😂😂😂

Yeah, I agree,  joe Rogan needs to grow up, he acts like a 20 yr old Benjamin Button.

Weed, a friend of the show.

I still miss Ben

American treasure Tim Dillion! Awesome videos

Timmy D is a national treasure 😂

Jakob parrish

Teenage potheads, friends of the show.

I grow cows & shit

The afternoon sun slanted across the kitchen counter, warming the space between two steaming mugs of chamomile tea. Clara twirled her spoon around her cup, a soft, dreamlike smile playing on her lips.
"Mom, he’s just... different. In a good way," Clara said, her voice bright. "He listens to me, he cooks, he buys me flowers just because it’s Tuesday. I really think I’m falling for him."
Elena smiled back, reaching across the table to squeeze her daughter’s hand. She’d spent months worrying about Clara’s quiet spells, so seeing her eyes light up was a relief. "He sounds lovely, sweetie. I'm really happy for you."
Clara shifted in her chair, her smile faltering just a fraction. She pulled at the cuff of her oversized knit sweater, tugging it down over her left wrist.
"There’s just... one thing," Clara began, her tone casual, almost conversational. "I wanted to get your perspective on it. Just to make sure I’m not overthinking."
"Of course," Elena said, setting her mug down. "What’s on your mind?"
"Well," Clara started, looking down at her tea. "When we’re chilling at his place, he likes to smoke pot to wind down. Which is fine, I don't mind the smell or anything. But when he’s finished with a joint... he puts it out on me."
The kitchen fell dead silent. The faint hum of the refrigerator suddenly sounded deafening.
Elena stared at her daughter, processing the words. "He... what?"
"He puts his joints out on my skin," Clara repeated, as if describing a quirky habit like leaving the cap off the toothpaste. "Like on my shoulder, or the back of my arm. He basically uses me as an ashtray. He says it’s an intimacy thing—that it proves I can take pain for him, or that I’m his 'canvas.' And right after he does it, he kisses the spot and tells me how much he loves me."
Clara looked up, searching her mother’s face. "It stings, obviously, but he’s so incredibly sweet to me every other minute of the day. I was just wondering... do you think that’s just some weird, eccentric guy thing? Or am I being dramatic for thinking it's a little strange?"
Elena felt the blood drain from her face, replaced instantly by a cold, sharp horror. She fought the urge to scream or jump out of her chair—she knew if she panicked, Clara would retreat into defensiveness.
"Clara," Elena said, keeping her voice as steady as humanly possible, though her hands were trembling under the table. "Pull up your sleeve."
Clara hesitated, slightly unnerved by the intensity in her mother's eyes. Slowly, she rolled back the thick sleeve of her sweater.
Scattered across her forearm were half a dozen small, round, angry red marks in various stages of healing, intermingled with faint, circular scars.
Tears prickled at the corners of Elena’s eyes, but she forced them back. She gently took Clara’s wrist, stroking the uninjured skin near her palm.
"Sweetie, look at me," Elena said softly.
Clara looked up, her brow furrowed with genuine confusion.
"Someone who loves you will never, ever use your body to put out a fire," Elena said, each word deliberate and clear. "It doesn’t matter if he buys you flowers. It doesn’t matter if he kisses the burn afterward. A man who uses you as an ashtray does not view you as a partner—he views you as an object he can hurt to see how much control he has over you."
Clara swallowed hard, her mouth opening to defend him, but the raw, heartbreak in her mother’s eyes stopped her. "But... he's so nice when he isn't doing it..."
"Cruelty doesn't count less just because it comes wrapped in nice gestures," Elena insisted gently, leaning closer. "That’s how it starts, Clara. He tests your boundaries with something painful, dresses it up as 'intimacy,' and watches to see if you'll accept it. You are not an ashtray. You are not his canvas to burn. You deserve to be safe, completely and unconditionally."
Clara looked down at the small red circles on her arm. The romantic illusion she’d built around the gesture began to crack, revealing the cold reality underneath. A single tear slipped down her cheek.
Elena stood up, walked around the small table, and pulled Clara tight against her chest.
"I'm so glad you asked me," Elena whispered into her hair. "Now let me help you get away from him."