Dear Roommate: There was never really a doubt in my mind that you were a huge stoner. For starters, your name is Sammy but you insist on being called “Bud” or “The Dude.” The second clue that you were a pothead was the collection of music posters that covered the walls on your side of our Building A room, from Bob Marley to the Grateful Dead to Phish. The third clue was your large collection of hand-blown glass paraphernalia on a Rastafarian-themed tray that upon further inspection was labeled “made of 100% hemp.” The last clue was that you smoked a joint out the window of our dorm room at least three times a day.

Living with a pothead is no easy task. You were once so angered by my ignorance of weed culture that you looked me dead in the eyes and said, “It’s Snoop Lion now, you heartless bastard.” We didn’t speak for a week.

You also once made me watch “Half Baked” with you in the AMR I Common Room as you spoke every line of dialogue in real-time.

One time, in a fit of munchies, you completely mixed together our bottles of ketchup, mustard, Cool Whip and mayonnaise for a “French Fry Surprise.” You ate 3 bites and then fell asleep on the floor.

And today, when I told you to pull your sad, pathetic life together and go to class, you had the audacity to tell me, “Don’t worry about a thing, ‘cause every little thing is gonna be alright.”