When I was younger, my family moved into a wonderful new apartment. We'd been searching for a long time, and found the perfect place. Much better than our old house. Spent an entire day moving everything in, and went to bed. Two hours later my dad comes into my room and tells me to start packing again. The man living below us was smoking marijuana with his friends, and the central air carried the smoke and smell up to us. My parents deemed it an unfit and unsafe place for the family. We spent the next 24 hours moving everything back to our old house, which was thankfully not on the market yet. Mind you, this was on two hours of sleep. Now, some may argue that my parents are the reason I dislike marijuana use, and that the drug has proven to have medical benefits. I concede that it does have a place as medication, but I will still have an underlying hatred for it. I blamed it, and still partially do, for messing stuff up, the one time things were looking good.