I’m not exciting. I’m sleepy by 10 p.m. and resent any plans that keep me out of my apartment, far from my pajamas; I’m not a huge fan of flying, so I tend to not go on too many trips; and spicy foods aren’t for me.

Sure, occasionally I venture beyond my comfort zone, but that’s just a reality of living in New York. Commuting to Manhattan from Brooklyn every day is like an episode of “The Amazing Race” in which everyone wins and the prize is work.

But this isn’t an essay about surviving in the Big Apple.

This is an essay about the first time I got high .

It took a while. At college parties I had watched my friends get blasted and decided that it wasn’t for me.