Some people prefer breathing in fresh air from the countryside, breezes wafting around hints of lemongrass and pure chlorophyll photosynthesis.
Others prefer the finest perfumes from Europe, the Coco Chanel’s and the Yves Saint Laurent’s tickling their noses.
I like the particular skunky, earthy, flowery sweet stench of a fresh jar of unopened strawberry cough, straight from the dispensary.
See, I was born and raised in Ohio, which has taken baby steps in marijuana legalization within the past couple years by making medical marijuana legal in 2016. I got my card in 2019 for my Tourette’s and what would later be diagnosed as arthritis in my pelvis. There was only one dispensary in the area and it happened to be really close to my house- Mad River Remedies.
At the risk of sounding like some sort of stoner frat-boy, me and pot go way back, man. I was 18 when I had my first experience getting baked- I had a hot tall big boob body and wore what young adults wore to fit in and go out, kissing frogs or whatever we used to do. Erica Timmonds took me to Adams house, with a bunch of other older guys I didn’t know. Everyone was already baked and the two of us jumped in rotation. We smoked bongs, bowls, and blunts. After hitting a blunt, I coughed for a solid two minutes, as all newbies would, with Erica patting my back.
“Just let in burn in your throat. It’ll be over in a second and you’ll be so high it won’t even matter”
I turned to Erica with red, glassy eyes and a scrunched up nose. Without reason, I lost my composure and burst out into boisterous, childish laughter. The sweetest sativas have taken over my funny bone, because I couldn’t stop laughing.
The older guys started spitting out slow, low-toned chuckles, no good stoners.
Now I only buy my product from the dispensary, mostly oil pens because of the convenience. They don’t lasts the longest- I’m known to blaze through cartridges, but I definitely get medicated in the process.
What does it feel like to be elated? The pain subsides, yes, the the toothache or joint pain withers to complete homeostasis. I always tend to feel superhuman, where I prefer those to answer to all three of my eyes, including the one on my forehead. I feel like more of a spiritual, comfortable being, and, via the magic of marijuana medicine, one who can live in the present moment.
Earlier today, I hit my pen so hard that I coughed and had a rush of serotonin to the noggin to extreme, I had a superhuman 6th sense hearing moment where I rode the wavelengths of pitches and frequencies of YellowBelly’s canary song. I looked him straight in the eye while he sang his assortment of bird calls, and I registered each detail of every whistle. His throat feathers fanned out as he flitted his wings while chatting. Now his song is forever burnt in my memory. How pleasant is that?
So, as you can see, my life just wouldn’t be the same with a breath of fresh skunky air, and the euphoric utopian Tao that follows. I’m able to do spiritual work. I’m able to just exist freely without qualm or quandary. To just be.