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Weed Takes Me To A Deep, Dark Place

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Well it’s 2017 and it seems like weed has gone fully mainstream. Pot is legal “medicinally” in damn near every state in the country (and I use the word “medicinally” loosely, you dishonest “ummm I think I have glaucoma or something” douchebags). And it’s becoming legal recreationally in a new state every 11 minutes, which is pretty cool. I predict that in a decade it’ll be legal recreationally everywhere in the country, so America will become an extra mellow place but it’ll also become even fatter. That’s the trade-off.

Right now I live in Los Angeles, the city of failed actors who are terrified of gluten. Soon, good ol’ Mary Jane is set to be legal recreationally here in California. Sometime next year I think? I can’t remember exactly when, and I’m too lazy to google it. But once it’s legal here, I have to remember that I still shouldn’t smoke it. Ever. Because every single time I get even a little bit high, my life turns into a circa mid-2000s gory torture porn horror flick. It’s a nationwide emergency. I never ever seem to learn my lesson.

Ya know how some people are lactose intolerant? I’m weed intolerant. Well, I’m lactose intolerant too but that’s a different story. Only instead of weed giving me raging diarrhea, it just makes me terrified of literally everything. The problem isn’t that I don’t like weed. I love weed. Weed has inspired some of my favorite dumb comedy movies and some of my favorite hip hop songs. I think weed is a great person. The problem is that weed doesn’t like me.

I’ve given weed many chances to be a nice guy to me. And every single time, that son of a bitch lets me down. Whether it be at a big party, a douche-infested music festival on a hot summer day, or just chilling with one or two friends in a dorm, weed is an asshole to me. When I get stoned I get insanely paranoid. Certain doctors and scientists refer to this phenomenon as “being a pussy.”

I’m a lightweight with weed. I have no idea why. It might be because of bipolar meds that I’m on, or I might just need to grow a pair. One puff of the chronic and I’m higher than the heavens. So unbelievably stoned that I think my pubes are trying to talk to me. I think the government is watching me and I think “Who Let The Dogs Out” is the national anthem. My heart starts going faster than Usain Bolt on crystal meth and I start sweating like…. Usain Bolt on crystal meth? Weed has ruined my ability to come up with more than two analogies at a time.

Getting high is horrific. I ruin parties with panic attacks and I kill the buzz like a professional buzz assassin. I wish life wasn’t like this, but c’est la vie. Enjoy your pot. But if you’re like me, know your limitations. You pussy.

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Wally Bryton

TFM's most beloved writer

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