When I was a teenager my bedroom was in the basement. It had those drop ceilings, the kind with metal frames and tiles that could be pushed up. I used to hide things us there; love letters, cigarettes and joints. Before I left home, I had gotten all of the love letters with their risque content and disposed of them. I thought I had cleared out everything else too.
Then, several years later, my parents changed cable companies. *insert ominous dun dun dun here* The cable guy found a pack of cigarettes and gave them to my dad. Dad opened the pack. He did not find tobacco cigarettes. Yes, that's right, big thick, hand rolled joints. They called my older brother first. He was the troublemaker and had that bedroom before I did. My brother asked about the brand of cigarettes, the box was Marlboro lights. Nope, not his. If they were in a Camel box he would have taken the blame. Dad called me. I sheepishly admitted that yes, the joints were mine. Dad laughed. Thank the gods 15 years had passed, or he would not have been laughing. He ended our call by saying, "Well, you're not getting 'em back." and a chuckle.