Well, friends. Pagosa Therapeutics is back to trying to off me with weed. Or, more specifically, with concentrate.
This week, they sent over a little thing called Bubba Babies PHO Wax, and I would like to tell you how the review of this stuff went, but I don’t remember that much. My notes are a mish-mash of nonsense, so I’ve tried to use them to piece the night together. Here’s what (I think) happened.
So I went to pick up this concentrate from what is quite possibly the friendliest dispensary on the planet, and I was told that I’d really like this one, because it has more CBD in it than some of the others we’ve tried. I do like a nice mix of CBD and THC – I think it makes the high more well-rounded – so I was down to clown.
Went home, popped open the lid of this bad boy, and I was pretty mesmerized with how shiny the wax was. I love their products, even though they make me into a human form of Patrick Star from Spongebob Squarepants. I dropped a little hunk of the shiny goodness into a pen – I was feeling lazy – and inhaled. I choked like a jackass. Inhaled again, choked like a jackass again. Just hit repeat on that for a few more inhales and you’ve got the gist of it.
I stopped inhaling after about five hits, because, well, it was clear I should. I was gosh darn stoned. No mistaking it. My notes say, and I quote, “That feeling when it starts in your back.” Dudes, I don’t know. Stoned talk, real talk.
Things go awry from there in my log. The next note states, “Man, I thought people tried to tell journalists what to do. Can you imagine being a detective on a murder case and having random people call you to tell you where to search? I would go insane.”
Let me explain that one. The district attorney on a high profile murder case near Denver had just released a cache of documents on the case, and I was *trying* to read them while stoned. Apparently all I gleaned from them at that time was how bossy people are. Y’all bossy, friends.
From there, I vaguely remember having to put down the computer because my eyes felt like they were crossing and it was making me laugh, which felt highly inappropriate to do while reading an autopsy report.
My next note states that I tried to clean something up with Vaseline. I for some reason felt it necessary to inform future self that this is not what Vaseline is intended for, writing: “I just tried to clean something with Vaseline. That is not what Vaseline is for, bozo.” Why am I so cool.
Then, apparently the body high kicked in. Want to know how I know? My notes say: “My limbs don’t want to walk or use their muscles. Sometimes I have nightmares where my legs won’t work and they buckle. I kinda feel like that only it stretches into my throat.” Someone please plan an intervention because I am a dumbass.
And then, the pièce de résistance. My final written statement to myself says, “I wish I could sign my emails with ‘nothing further.’ People would start listening to me.”
If that’s not proof that I’ve become Patrick Star, I don’t know what is.
So I’d like to say a sincere thank you to Pagosa Therapeutics. They always get me stoned to the heavens, and because of them, I’ve learned to embrace my idiocy. I’ve also learned to keep snacks and a pen near, cause neither my limbs nor my brain will cooperate when their products are involved. The more you know, right?