My sister wanted to be a cannabis delivery driver.
When she turned fourteen, my sister was anxious to get a job.
She checked all over our town, but no one would hire someone who wasn’t at least sixteen. My mom told her to wait until she got her driver’s license, and then she could get a job. My sister said she may as well wait until she was eighteen, because she had to be in by dark with the cinderella license in our state. When she turned sixteen, she got a job at a small business about two blocks from where our dad lives. Now, she could wait until she turned eighteen. She wanted to be a cannabis delivery driver. She told me cannabis delivery drivers make a lot of money, and they get good tips. I wanted to know how she knew this, and she told me someone came into the store where she works. He was talking about his job as a marijuana delivery driver, and he made it sound really cool. She wanted to be a cannabis delivery driver when she turned eighteen. I don’t know where she came up with the magic number of eighteen, because I thought you had to be twenty-one to work in any capacity with medical or recreational marijuana. I wasn’t going to tell her, because she accused me of not wanting her to work as a marijuana delivery driver. I didn’t, but what she doesn’t know, won’t hurt me. The last time I tried to sway her in one of her hair-brained ideas, she punched me so hard, she injured a rib, and I’m almost five years older and seventy-five pounds heavier than she is.