Half of What I Say is Meaningless

I found an abandoned project today. Thirty-five pages of an epistolary young adult novel. Friends, I know I smoked a lot of pot in high school and college, but I have zero recollection of writing this or dropping it, though I did make a special folder. This probably won’t come as a surprise, but I’ve never met a new project that didn’t demand a new notebook or binder.

Supplies. What’s your poison?