Weed it and weep

Chicken soup for the cannabis lover’s soul

Arrive late to a potluck and you might get really stoned.

Okay, so what would YOU do if the kale salad and lasagna were all gone, the nachos were down to crumbs, and all that was left was a glowing plate of homemade — and, unsuspectingly, homegrown — brownies?

The taste in my mouth was that of  fresh-mowed lawn aged in a cheese cave. It tasted… good. So sue me, I ate three. I was hungry.

Then came that familiar,  quiet inkling of paranoia beginning somewhere deep in my potbelly. Could they be…? There’s no way. They weren’t labeled. I asked my friend who also arrived late.

“Yeah, I had a brownie. Why do you ask?”

We deduced that he ate them 15 minutes before me, so he would be the scout. If he felt trippy, he’d let me know. Next time I saw him, he was passed out on the couch.

The taste in my mouth was that of fresh-mowed lawn aged in a cheese cave. It tasted… good. So sue me, I ate three brownies.

Shit.

Next thing I knew, I was huddled around a Kinder Egg Surprise toy car with three others in utter fascination…

Then came my two-hour, day-in-the-life-of-a-dog learning journey, where I crawled around the garden with the neighbour’s coonhound, whom I later learned was deaf and blind, and likely had no idea we had hung out, let alone had been best friends.

Finally came my epic trek across a vast landscape in middle-earth (i.e., from Bear Hill to Fernwood).

Then it was 7 a.m., the sun was rising, and I was sitting at a bus stop by Highway 1. My friend — the one who I’d last seen passed out — appeared, driving by on his way home from the potluck.

“Wanna lift?”

Just had one, thanks.

Bong tokes for first-timers.

After my last exam before Christmas in first-year, I decided to get high for the first time. I made my way to my friend’s dorm as soon as I left my calculus exam. When I got to his place, he was already high and laughing about nothing. He told me that we’d be using a bong (great way to smoke for the first time — not) and that he would light it for me.

When he finally pulled out the bowl, he started jumping around happily. I had cleared the entire bowl…

He was laughing maniacally as he piled weed into the bowl. It looked like too much, but I assumed that I wouldn’t be smoking it all myself so I didn’t say anything. When it came time to smoke, he told me to keep breathing in for a really long time. When he finally pulled out the bowl, he started jumping around happily. I had cleared the entire bowl…

I wasn’t worried because I didn’t know enough about weed to know that I was screwed. He told me I had about 10 minutes to run to my dorm. I left right away, but I didn’t make it. I lay on my back on the cluster path staring at the sky for what felt like an eternity. Tons of other students walked past me, but no one questioned it.

Fried rice for fried nights.

It was just another summer evening here in balmy Victoria. I finished work, ran some errands, and arrived home to a house full of roommates and friends merrily idling in front of the television, packing bong tokes and making dinner.

While almost all my friends are reefer-smoking-cool-kids, I rarely smoke weed. Growing up on the west coast, I’m hardly a stranger to being one of the few people in the room who isn’t stoned. As such, my tolerance for weed-related products is very low, making the incident I’m about to describe all the more potent.

I walked into the kitchen and talked to my roommate who was in the process of cooking a large pot of fried rice. It looked delicious.

The fried rice had been cooked using a homemade weed oil. But with this information unbeknownst to me, I helped myself to a sizeable portion for dinner. Honestly, it was delicious. I didn’t find it at all reefery-tasting.

I briefly went to my room, and when I returned, friends were all sitting around with plates full of fried rice and, in admirably stoner-ific fashion, were watching the Food Network. It was during my time out of the room that everyone had been warned of the secret ingredient in the fried rice. Everyone but me, of course.

The fried rice had been cooked using a homemade weed oil. But with this information unbeknownst to me, I helped myself to a sizeable portion for dinner. Honestly, it was delicious. I didn’t find it at all reefery-tasting, and I even considered having a second helping (although thankfully I didn’t).

I slowly began wondering how this man on the Food Network got his own show while acting so damn weird. I mean, this guy was just incredibly odd. Just terrifically strange. I hadn’t noticed it before, but now I couldn’t un-notice it. He just had this incredibly off-putting demeanour.

And then it dawned on me. A growing sense of paranoia. An increasing estrangement from the sensible, established reality that I was used to. The obsession with the Food Network guy. I was definitely high.

45 minutes after that and I was so high that I felt it necessary to excuse myself from my friends and retire to bed  promptly at nine o’clock. It wasn’t even dark out yet.

All stories are anonymous.

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