Feeling stressed? Worried about pandemics? Bored? Curious about all the hubbub but not really?
Don’t worry we all are.
But, as I understand it, help is available if one is willing to avail themselves of it. Legally. Unlike when we were kids, back when it was cool and counterculture and all of that. Many, of course, availed themselves of it all along, and are happy that they no longer have to hide it or deal with occasionally skeevy dealers. Others, perhaps piqued, and now certain that they won’t end up in prison with killers and rapists, may wish to place a timid toe in the waters of recreational bud, maryjane, dope, weed, whatever they call it now… oh yeah, marijuana.
I was never an aficionado, mainly because the few times I tried it, it did nothing for me. Being the only person in the car not giddy and laughing and stoned was a letdown and a waste of what little discretionary cash I had burning a hole in my pocket. If I wanted to get buzzed, good ol’ alcohol always worked, and I wouldn’t become a dope fiend like all the scary public service messages said I would.
Better to become a socially accepted alcoholic.
However, now that weed, dope, bud, pot is now legal and I’m no longer a productive member of society-I gave up engineering to become a struggling artiste-I figured, what the hell? And, as with all slippery slopes, advocates of the recreational pharmaceutical industry, like their counterparts in the booze biz, allowed that responsible (?) use would not lead to the kinds of problems often lamented in yon days of yore or by people today that I know in Florida.
And it’s not like shooting heroin or other opiods, I mean come on, man, we’re talking about mellow and blissed out, baby, and in these times of stress and crazy scary viruses and online wackos, isn’t some mellowing a good thing? And in a brownie no less? I felt this was a better way to go versus being overwhelmed by the sheer volume of choices now in this booming industry.
Is it only me that finds recreational and industry to diametrically opposed.
Anyway, since it’s unlikely anyone sells rolled-gold, Maui-wowie, Acapulco-gold, or good ol’ home-grown weed anymore, and I’m not a big fan of something burning stuck in my mouth, the way to go was a gel to add to the brownie mix and soon, with some ice cream and an hour for digestion to do its magic, plus mood music and an antique lava lamp, I’d be freed, if only temporarily, from the raging crazy-crap swirling all around me.
Total bliss, man. And maybe a headache as I had no idea how much to start with.
Or, I could turn-off all media and pull Boccaccio’s The Decameron off the bookshelf and vicariously relive waiting out the black death.
It could work.
©2020 David William Pearce
David William Pearce, Writer 