Wow. Thank you so much for considering me. To even be nominated for something like this means the world to me. To be passed a joint in this midwestern parking lot—that I thought we were all visiting for a nice change of scenery (what a thrill!)—is an honor.

Unfortunately, I do have to decline, for while on the outside I look like I spent a past life as a lava lamp, my insides are as square as an actuary’s lunch box.

The D.A.R.E. officers always told me to just say no, so I’ll make this quick: I am really, really bad at weed. Still, I want to thank my friends for giving a shot to the underdog, despite knowing the tax attorney-esque vibes that lurk beneath this indie-band disguise.

But this is not A Star Is Born. I am not an ingenue, blinded to her own potential, destined to take the stage in a cloud of smoke. It’s more like expecting Saturday Night Fever Travolta and receiving Adele Dazeem John.

Truthfully, my younger self would never have thought I’d even be in the position to turn this down. See, Dad, you always believed in me! He warned me of all after-school-special interactions even before I looked cool. I, for one, never thought that I would be chosen, offered this opportunity to glimpse the high echelons. But he always knew! Representation of weird little nerds being offered drugs matters.

What even my poor father could not have predicted is that my body rejects coolness so viscerally that the buzz a college freshman who newly discovered Harold and Kumar would call “light,” will leave me, someone who looks as if they gave serious thought to following the Dead on tour, vomiting. Worse yet, it will drive me to contemplate my own existence, which I cannot afford at this juncture in my career.

I do want to take a moment to acknowledge my peers in the strait-laced struggle. When THC-intolerant dorks like me order three pizzas, extra cheese, and a side of Bosco sticks, the delivery person knows it is not because of the munchies; we simply have no self-restraint and poor financial planning. When the pot-challenged buy “Dark Side of the Moon” on vinyl, the checkout person knows it's not because we're a good hang; it's because we're pretentious little nerds. When the indica-inhibited look at our hands, like, really look at them, they’re just hands.

So, the next time you light up, remember friends, you are taking that pull for those of us who can’t. The reefer-retractors, the strangers to Mary Jane, the dorks deficient in the devil’s lettuce. We salute you, and we are honored by today’s symbolic win.

Finally, a big thank you to tonight’s sponsor: my friend Jimmy who doesn’t seem to know weed is legal now. Jimmy wants me to remind you that ever since buying that grow lamp, things have “really taken off.”

Jimmy, this ceremony would not be the same without your limp leaves and stubborn insistence that the four terracotta pots in your basement make you a community farmer. I’m pretty sure your ability to roll a joint in a moving car doesn’t mean you can compete with the dispensaries, but what do I know, I’m just human canasta camouflaged as ultimate frisbee.

I see I’m getting the light—with my last few moments here, I would like to thank God for making me this way: a weird little gremlin with the outsides of a nationally-ranked hacky sacker, and the insides of your uncle Ted, the divorce lawyer whose idea of a good time is fun socks.

So, I am forced to decline your nomination. But remember kids, don’t let go of your dreams! One day, you could be mistaken for a cool person, too!