Our resident cannabis columnist is a man of many hats. This week he wanted to share with us the story of his worst experience while smoking our favorite plant. Enjoy!
Birthdays are like butt holes, everyone has one and they stink. Every year I have to pretend I’m ok with the fact that my back hurts more, pop culture becomes harder to relate to, and the odds of me finding a woman that isn’t crazy or up to her elbows in illegitimate children gets thinner and thinner. Then there are other people’s birthdays that force you to buy a gift, get dressed, and eat dinner with a large group of people that disappear as soon as the check shows up. Basically birthdays are my least favorite holiday, right behind Easter (I hate chocolate) and Columbus day (dude didn’t find anything). That’s why, nearly a decade ago, when I received a text from my wonderful baby sister that she wanted to spend her 21st birthday with me, I was reluctant but inevitably knew I had to do my best to show her a good time.
Weeks passed while I planned our itinerary for the big night. I had dinner and drinks settled at some of my favorite spots and my outfit was perfectly tailored for a night of drunken shenanigans with my family. As I waited for their arrival I busied myself with smoking as much cannabis as I possibly could in order to ensure that good times were in store. This was at the infancy of my cannabis consumption and needless to say, I was feeling higher than Elon Musk after meeting Joe Rogan. My sister arrived with her two best friends and my mother at precisely 9pm and after another joint I was ready to hit the town with our ragtag crew.
After a blur of food, shots, and expensive taxi’s ushering us around the county we made our way to my apartment to play Wii bowling and presumably to smoke more pot. As my high began to crescendo into a state of comatose I noticed that everyone besides my mother and I had claimed every inch of sleepable surface, save for my own bed. It’s at this point I feel like I should mention that I moved out at the ripe old age of sixteen to make it on my own in Orange County and my relationship with my mom is less than traditional. We treat each other more like friends than we do family and it works perfectly for both of us. But now, with only a queen size mattress and two blankets to separate us I settled into a sleeping bag position and did my best to fall asleep as quickly as possible, thankfully the amount of cannabis I had consumed did the heavy lifting and I was in dreamland in no time.
Here’s the thing about waking up stoned and confused with a hand in your pants that isn’t yours. Time moves very slow. The first second your brain will began to process the full scope of the situation, you went to sleep and your mom was next to you. You’ll remember that she was pretty intoxicated and that she normally sleeps next to her boyfriend. The next second will probably be a combination of you leaping out of said bed and shouting “stop it mom!” while simultaneously turning on your bedroom light.
As my bloodshot eyes began to adjust to the bright lights I had just summoned I was greeted with a wave of relief. The area to the right of my pillow was no longer occupied by the woman that birthed me. Due to an allergy to cats she had moved into the living room and the young lady that replaced her decided that a surprise “hookup” would be a fun, consequence free, way to spend the early hours of the morning. Unfortunately I don’t think she realized the ramifications of her actions and my high was gone, only to be replaced with a sinking feeling that has haunted me ever since. I didn’t want to talk, I definitely didn’t want to eat, and showers couldn’t clean me enough. At least my sister had a great night.
It was weeks before I was able to return to my favorite plant and once I did it was like hearing music for the first time, I was in love. I’m not sure if many people have a story as bad as mine about their worst experience with cannabis but lucky for me, the pot really helps with my PTSD towards surprise hand jobs. Happy smoking everyone!