When in Rome- SMOKE POT.
Posted By: Ms. That Girl | March 15, 2010 | 7 comments
Ahhh, marijuana. That sticky- icky green that makes everything allllll good. The stuff that gives skunks a good name, being that only a true blue pothead can tell the difference between a skunk’s ass-spray and some bomb shit. The “abra-cadabra” that relieves what ails you, as if it were never a bother to begin with.
Now. How many fucking years has it taken for state governments to figure this out? 2,009? Dumbasses.
Back in September, I took a trip out to San Diego. Medical marijuana has not yet been legalized where I live now, but it sure has in Cali- along with 13 other states that are not as lame as Connecticut. What a fucking pleasure that was. I hadn’t smoked in maybe a year or more before this vacation. I had a good run, but it was over and I was slightly disappointed because there was a time when it would have been much more appreciated. However, when in Rome- smoke pot.
So that’s what I did. I smoked pot that came in orange pill bottles with different names on them, such as “Kush”, “Northern Lights”, and “New York Diesel”. On pill bottles. No joke. I seriously wonder who’s job it was to name all the strains of weed- BEST. JOB. EVER.
Anyway- to top that all off, a friend brought me along on a visit to the “dispensary”- a place where people get weed. I wasn’t allowed in because I didn’t have a prescription, but in my head I pictured a vending machine with lots of glimmering buds behind the glass. I was wrong. When my friend returned to the car, he presented me with (brace yourself): one marijuana granola bar, and 2 marijuana white chocolate peanut butter cups. I need to stress that I am NOT LYING right now. Each wrapper read “Take as needed for relief.” Liiiiikkkkee… are you serious? I know many of you are probably thinking “Ew, that sounds so gross.” Trust- I was expecting the same, but when I say you can only taste a hint of weed- you can only taste a hint of it. The rest was pure chocolately, peanut buttery, orgasmic goodness. Better than the original Reese’s PB Cup, I’m not not joking.
So we hit up the weed machine, we eat our pot appetizer and went out to lunch. But I’m sitting there eating, like mad disappointed ’cause I didn’t feel shit. After lunch, we go to a book store. Still nothing. Two hours later, we’re on the highway headed to the casino for the night. I’ve pretty much given up hope at this point. BUT alllll of a sudden, I feel my lips curl up into an oh-so-familiar smile, that I’ve always referred to as “perma-grin.” I feet my eyes droop slightly and I remember turning the radio down, looking at my friend and saying, “Yo. It just hit me.” We both got a good laugh- or in my case, uncontrollable giggle. My trusty old friend, Mary-Jane, had returned to me with open arms. Within minutes, the music sounded better, the coast-line scenery was even more beautiful, and the conversation got deeper and more philosophical. Everything was rich with it’s own gloriousness once again.
Dear California- I can’t help but wonder if the fact that every single one of you is stoned has anything to do with your unemployment rate, but you know what? I ain’t mad atcha. Since returning, I haven’t rocked the ganj even once. I feel as though I don’t need to because I know that one day, I will return to that Utopia known as ”The Golden State,” and the greenest of the green will be waiting for me there.
This article was supposed to be about the controversial fight to legalize marijuana. Incidentally, it just happened to turn into a love story- and I am not sorry.
I will close in saying this: always remember to be responsible, don’t bogart, and pass it to the left. The End.
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swas June 16, 2010 at 10:22 am
hey, could you please tell me where exactly you bought that stuff or if you know any good places to buy in Rome? Because I’m heading there next week. Thanks.
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