So I should tell you about the great experiment.
Since of several weeks ago I decided to put a halt to my straight-edge hard core academic ways, in favor of becoming a pot-smoking fornicater, the most readily available first step in this transformation was to begin smoking marijuana. (easier to get a controlled substance than to get laid. My eleven-year-old self is rolling over in its shallow grave)
I suppose my first brush with the stuff was the 22nd. A couple of my friends were smoking right before watching Doctor Horrible's sing-a-long blog. I had proper instruction on how to use a pipe, and was even able to manually operate a lighter! I was well on my way. In hindsight after a few hits I knew there must have been some effect because I thought the sing-a-long blog was amusing. After Angel, Joss Whedon just lost me.
A few days later I had obtained my vaporizer (too much of a vajayjay to use a pipe or bong like everyone else) and announced my plan to my friends to go home, set up my record player, and get stoned. Probably out of concern for my wholly n008i5h ways they offered to come over, maybe to prevent me from doing anything too embarassing. Just a guess. They brought their dogs and we gathered in my basement and messed around with the vaporizer like a bunch of aunts and uncles at christmas time trying to get the remote control car to work. But as high-level users themselves they fired the thing up. The device in question fills plastic bags and quickly filled bags were being passed around, though I recall most of them were handed directly to me.
I can't put a number on exactly how much was smoked, and whether I consumed a great or mean amount. They outranked me when it came to prepping crucibles. (the vape has a wirescreened container called, in some places, a crucible) Generally, I think it was the equivalent of packing between two to three bowls at least. It could've been more.
At first with all the heavy inhalations, I had the reasonable thought that I was getting a bit dizzy from a head rush. This dizziness didn't pass. I think I knew what was coming because as they kept on filling these bags and handing them to me I soon started contemplating just getting rid of them. Like the old reel of Lucille Ball working the conveyor belth at the chocolate factory. I guess I had the idea to try and put a record on so I went to the office chair by the player, and that's when it hit me. Lost track of time, where I was, who was around. Felt quite a lot like I was blacking out and that was a helpless fuckin' feeling. When the Wild disorientation passed, commonplace disorientation set in. It felt like there was a cymbal perfectly contained within my head, the edges of which just brushed against the inside of my ears, and the thing was being strummed by Richard Manuel. I don't remember how long I was in that chair holding on to the arms of it. Johnny asked if I was ok, and Tina pointed out, he's stoned. There was a buttload of tingling along the back of my neck and shoulders.
Somehow I crossed the room to where I'd left a bag of oatmeal raisin cookies I'd bought for the occasion. Tina suggested that I eat something so I tried out one of these cookies. Usually I'm down with cookie monster, but right then I had to use two hands just to hold this cookie. I took a bite out of it and had to concentrate entirely on chewing it to keep it in my mouth; felt like it was an ordeal. When I swallowed it down I started to panic, because the whole rest of the cookie was waiting for me, with just one small bite taken out of it. That cookie got put down for later. I think around then I noticed that maybe twenty minutes had gone by since the expeirment had started.
Either of their own whim, or as part of some clever scheme to push forward my experience of being thoroughly stoned, my friends decided that it was a good time to run an errand to the petstore to pick up some leads for their dogs, and I was to come along. Looking back on it, and giving great credit to marijuana, I didn't feel genuinely anxious or afraid about this. I felt ingenuinely anxious about this, but that's a far lesser concern. It was hard to go up a flight of stairs, which is one of the limitations of smoking in the basement. When we got to their car in the driveway they had to move the seats around. One of their dogs is a corgi puppy, Bruiser, and I had to hold her in place while they moved the seats around. This was an actual responsibility and I began to get nervous that I was finding a way of doing this simple job in a disastrously mistaken way that would earn the everlasting ire of my friends. But since it was just holding a dog everything turned out alright.
In the car my experience took a sudden J. Alfred Prufrock turn for the worse. Either the cookie, or the dreaded cotton mouth, made my mouth go suddenly very dry and sticky. In the footwell there was a gallon water jug. I wound up stuck with indecision: Do I dare to impugn upon this waterbottle of my friends? These good people who trust me with their marijuana and their animals? In the state you're in, in a moving vehicle with an awkward jug like that? You'd spill water all over yourself, and then what! They wouldn't be able to take you anywhere. And they wouldn't have anymore water! That would be a fine payback, wouldn't it? That water didn't get drank. Johnny pointed out along the way that I was going to need Tea Shades, because my eyes were obviously red. We stopped to get some food, and I had the most intense hot dog eating experience I have ever had.
We got home. things played down. It was about four hours after the venture began. I think I was coming down, because ascending and descending stairs was becoming a controllable matter once more. My friends said it was time for them to go home, and strongly advised me to take a nap. The process was, if nothing else, completely exhausting. At least it felt that way. They left, I hope I thanked them a lot, I fed my cat. Then I pulled out an old winter blanket, the big kind you can snuggle up under, and took that nap. I'm *pretty sure* I had a wank before I went to sleep because I wanted to see what that would feel like stoned. Purely scientific. I was up an hour and a half later, still a bit out of sorts, and organized the record collection.
A stoner is me.
Since of several weeks ago I decided to put a halt to my straight-edge hard core academic ways, in favor of becoming a pot-smoking fornicater, the most readily available first step in this transformation was to begin smoking marijuana. (easier to get a controlled substance than to get laid. My eleven-year-old self is rolling over in its shallow grave)
I suppose my first brush with the stuff was the 22nd. A couple of my friends were smoking right before watching Doctor Horrible's sing-a-long blog. I had proper instruction on how to use a pipe, and was even able to manually operate a lighter! I was well on my way. In hindsight after a few hits I knew there must have been some effect because I thought the sing-a-long blog was amusing. After Angel, Joss Whedon just lost me.
A few days later I had obtained my vaporizer (too much of a vajayjay to use a pipe or bong like everyone else) and announced my plan to my friends to go home, set up my record player, and get stoned. Probably out of concern for my wholly n008i5h ways they offered to come over, maybe to prevent me from doing anything too embarassing. Just a guess. They brought their dogs and we gathered in my basement and messed around with the vaporizer like a bunch of aunts and uncles at christmas time trying to get the remote control car to work. But as high-level users themselves they fired the thing up. The device in question fills plastic bags and quickly filled bags were being passed around, though I recall most of them were handed directly to me.
I can't put a number on exactly how much was smoked, and whether I consumed a great or mean amount. They outranked me when it came to prepping crucibles. (the vape has a wirescreened container called, in some places, a crucible) Generally, I think it was the equivalent of packing between two to three bowls at least. It could've been more.
At first with all the heavy inhalations, I had the reasonable thought that I was getting a bit dizzy from a head rush. This dizziness didn't pass. I think I knew what was coming because as they kept on filling these bags and handing them to me I soon started contemplating just getting rid of them. Like the old reel of Lucille Ball working the conveyor belth at the chocolate factory. I guess I had the idea to try and put a record on so I went to the office chair by the player, and that's when it hit me. Lost track of time, where I was, who was around. Felt quite a lot like I was blacking out and that was a helpless fuckin' feeling. When the Wild disorientation passed, commonplace disorientation set in. It felt like there was a cymbal perfectly contained within my head, the edges of which just brushed against the inside of my ears, and the thing was being strummed by Richard Manuel. I don't remember how long I was in that chair holding on to the arms of it. Johnny asked if I was ok, and Tina pointed out, he's stoned. There was a buttload of tingling along the back of my neck and shoulders.
Somehow I crossed the room to where I'd left a bag of oatmeal raisin cookies I'd bought for the occasion. Tina suggested that I eat something so I tried out one of these cookies. Usually I'm down with cookie monster, but right then I had to use two hands just to hold this cookie. I took a bite out of it and had to concentrate entirely on chewing it to keep it in my mouth; felt like it was an ordeal. When I swallowed it down I started to panic, because the whole rest of the cookie was waiting for me, with just one small bite taken out of it. That cookie got put down for later. I think around then I noticed that maybe twenty minutes had gone by since the expeirment had started.
Either of their own whim, or as part of some clever scheme to push forward my experience of being thoroughly stoned, my friends decided that it was a good time to run an errand to the petstore to pick up some leads for their dogs, and I was to come along. Looking back on it, and giving great credit to marijuana, I didn't feel genuinely anxious or afraid about this. I felt ingenuinely anxious about this, but that's a far lesser concern. It was hard to go up a flight of stairs, which is one of the limitations of smoking in the basement. When we got to their car in the driveway they had to move the seats around. One of their dogs is a corgi puppy, Bruiser, and I had to hold her in place while they moved the seats around. This was an actual responsibility and I began to get nervous that I was finding a way of doing this simple job in a disastrously mistaken way that would earn the everlasting ire of my friends. But since it was just holding a dog everything turned out alright.
In the car my experience took a sudden J. Alfred Prufrock turn for the worse. Either the cookie, or the dreaded cotton mouth, made my mouth go suddenly very dry and sticky. In the footwell there was a gallon water jug. I wound up stuck with indecision: Do I dare to impugn upon this waterbottle of my friends? These good people who trust me with their marijuana and their animals? In the state you're in, in a moving vehicle with an awkward jug like that? You'd spill water all over yourself, and then what! They wouldn't be able to take you anywhere. And they wouldn't have anymore water! That would be a fine payback, wouldn't it? That water didn't get drank. Johnny pointed out along the way that I was going to need Tea Shades, because my eyes were obviously red. We stopped to get some food, and I had the most intense hot dog eating experience I have ever had.
We got home. things played down. It was about four hours after the venture began. I think I was coming down, because ascending and descending stairs was becoming a controllable matter once more. My friends said it was time for them to go home, and strongly advised me to take a nap. The process was, if nothing else, completely exhausting. At least it felt that way. They left, I hope I thanked them a lot, I fed my cat. Then I pulled out an old winter blanket, the big kind you can snuggle up under, and took that nap. I'm *pretty sure* I had a wank before I went to sleep because I wanted to see what that would feel like stoned. Purely scientific. I was up an hour and a half later, still a bit out of sorts, and organized the record collection.
A stoner is me.
but the way it's written is really cool. makes for a great story