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The great philosopher Jonah Hill once said, “Weed is tight, weed is tight.” And he was right. Who wouldn’t trust the man that gave us the immortal Donnie from the Wolf of Wall Street?
Anyway, it had been an especially trying week for me. As usual, I found myself wagering the GDP of small African nations on assorted sporting events, drinking to a point of stupor, and waking up with women I legitimately prayed were over the age of 18. Shit, at my age, it’s about time I start hoping for house guests no longer in their teenage years, but that’s an issue for another time.
I was sick, hardly sleeping, and basically unable to function on a day-to-day level, needing some attention from the socialist health center my university provided. Once I was finally seen, I met a peculiar older woman who looked like a granola version of Cruella Deville, Birkenstocks and all, as I sat nervously awaiting what terrible disease I assumed I had contracted.
“Siblings,” she snarled at me.
“You need to get some sleep. You’re suffering from exhaustion.”
The problem, of course, was that I couldn’t sleep, so the real life Captain Obvious sitting before me had done little to curb my fears.
“I realize that, but how do I do that? Not literally, I mean I realize I close my eyes and whatnot, so forgive me but I’ve accumulated that knowledge in the last couple decades.”
Surprisingly, she found my asshattery somewhat palatable, perhaps even charming.
“I’d give you a prescription, but I don’t want to. I don’t think it’s what’s best for you,” she said as my hopes of government-sanctioned drugs evaporated in an awesome wave of sadness.
“No, but have you considered marijuana? I think it would be a far more natural way of relaxing before bed. In extreme moderation, of course.”
And just like that, with no intention of achieving this somewhat monumental goal, the state of Illinois granted me my medical card, a literal get out of jail free coupon for the possession of what I assumed was an illegal substance. What a fucking country.
Naturally, I decided to experiment with all sorts of strains, devices, and edibles. I went balls deep into the world of pot from the beginning. But after degrading my voice and lung quality to a full on Michael Madsen impersonation, I realized something I thought I would never admit: The vaporizer is the best option.
Now, before eviscerating me in the comments section, hear me out. I do not “vape.” I don’t try to do tricks with the expelled water vapor like the end of a fucking blow bang scene. I’m not joining some club or competition, trying flavored tobacco, or smoking in public. I simply prefer, in the privacy of my own home, to utilize my legally prescribed substance in the manner that is least harmful (supposedly) to my lungs and general health.
My voice no longer sounds terrible. There’s hardly any odor in my living space, and I feel my level of douchebaggery (admittedly already quite high) has not increased all that much with my new form of consumption. If I rolled one every day, used a different device with actual smoke, etc., I’d probably end up speaking through a device pressed against my throat. Getting fucked up is a TFM. Can I claim doing so while in some ways protecting my future health is also FaF?
Fuck, I’m such a pussy. Blast away. I’ll just be here vaping because it’s for “medicinal” purposes..
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