When I was going to grad school, moving to one state from another, amongst my beer and personal items I packed in three pounds of really high-quality marijuana.

Each pound of marijuana was in a large Ziploc bag, kind of like a nice decorative pillow one might see on a couch or a sofa these days at Ikea.

It wasn’t very traumatic, but it was aromatic.

Nothing happened. We got to the city, dispensed of said contraband, and everyone lived happily ever after.