My short-lived stint as a herb farmer

My one and only marijuana crop failed.
When I was young and hopeful, a friend, who happened to be a doctor, gave me a few marijuana seeds.
Following the doctor's orders, I planted my special seeds in a soil-filled egg carton.
Since the doctor had to return to Toronto to save lives, I was on my own.
Putting the grass-growing project high on my To Do list, I offered my seeds drinks of water, fresh air and sunlight.
It wasn't long before my little illegal crop sprouted. I was so proud. I started to pray for a bumper crop.
It was at this point in my life I realized God isn't fond of me. The Good Lord may love all creatures big and small, but not me. 
Still, I soldiered on, transplanting six pot plants to a nice little spot in our orchard. Within 24 hours, five kicked the bucket.
I visited my sole cannabis survivor every day. It seemed lonely, out of place and grew ever so slow.
Despite having an agricultural background, I am not a patient farmer. After about three weeks of trekking to the orchard, I became disappointed, disillusioned and bored.
Despite my TLC, my THC was only about two feet high.
Fed up with the whole ordeal, I cut the plant's life short, picked the ripe green leaves and hid them in the pantry.
In the dead of night, I snuck down to the kitchen, laid the grass on a cookie sheet and popped it into the oven. Since I have the attention span of a hummingbird, I set the oven on broil. My grass was cooked in less than a minute.
Using a rolling pin, I crushed the brown and shriveled leaves. 
Despite all the nurturing, coaxing, pampering, hoping and praying, I ended up with only enough grass for one doobie.
Since I was usually mad at my husband for one reason or another, I decided not to share. I'd sing Fraternity of Man's Don't Bogart That Joint My Friend all by myself.
There's another thing you need to know. For the life of me, I can't roll a joint. The stems split the paper and bulges form in the middle. It's so loose at the ends, most of the grass lands on my lap.    
This time, I decided to get smart. I used six rolling papers and ended up with a rather sad looking joint.
No one there to judge me, I sat on my porch in the middle of the night in the dead of summer of'68 and smoked the whole damned thing, coughed until my eyes bulged and  chocked until I turned blue. But I smoked it.
To top it off, I threw the roach in my mouth and swallowed it.
And then I waited. I waited for the buzz.
After about an hour, I admitted there was no buzz. Then I remembered: an ass-kicking weed plant has to be a girl. I'd just smoked a boy.