The other night I got so high that I thought someone on the (very classy) reality show I was watching called the woman he was dating his Beyonce. He did not, in fact, refer to his significant other as his Beyonce, as you may have gathered. He called her his fiance, which made a hell of a lot more sense once I figured it out.
How did I get so high that I conflated Beyonce with fiance? Well, a little strain called Morning Dew, that’s how. I was promised that this strain, which contains a whopping 31.88% THC and THC-A, would not get me dumb-dumb high by the bartender at The Green House, and this here review is proof that he is a liar.
A nice liar, mind you, but a liar nonetheless. Not that I’m complaining — getting dumb high is kinda my thing, but I just wasn’t expecting it. I was expecting the mellow, hybrid high described to me by said budtender when I picked up the strain for review, but what I actually got was a punch to the brainstem that rendered me idiotic. No surprise there.
I also did not expect the punch to the throat this strain packed when I lit it up. I don’t know if it was the compact, crunchy nugs that led me to believe this thing was harmless, or if it was just the budtender’s false hope instilled into my soul, but whatever it was, I felt brave enough to take a huge hit right out of the gate. I paid for it with my lung. I am now a one-lunged wonder. Thanks, Morning Dew, you silly ol’ jerk. And, as is par for the course, that first hit set the tone for the entire smoking session. I coughed, and I coughed, and I coughed some more until I raised legitimate concern among my housemates that something was wrong.
“Hey, are you dying or just high?” I heard from the living room. I didn’t bother to answer. Or maybe I couldn’t because my tongue didn’t work. I really don’t know. What I do know is this strain, as with its harsh smoke, hit me hard and fast, and I was very high after one bowl.
So high that I was chitchatting to basically nobody and everybody, telling tales of god knows what to anyone who would listen. These are the woes of a pot reviewer, friend. This life ain’t pretty. And once I’d exhausted all of the words in the English language, I managed to find more, chatting and chatting to my heart’s content.
Once everyone stopped listening to my rants, I grabbed a bunch of snacks (i.e. someone else’s Sour Patch Kids) and parked my ass on the couch for some trash TV, content to wallow in my own stoned mess until it wore off. And that’s when it happened. Five minutes into the show had me hooked, and I was even more hooked when I confused fiance for Beyonce. It took me nearly 20 minutes to figure out that Beyonce is not being used as a term of endearment by 60-year-old men who travel to Russia for brides. It was just my stoned mind playing tricks on me.
And, if we’re judging by my notes for this review, my mind continued to play tricks on me, though I don’t really remember much about it. One of the notes in my phone outlines a nonsensical book idea, and the other standout says, and I quote: “Look up welding classes online.”
Yeah, sober me says that sounds like an awful idea. But it’s one that Morning Dew led me to, and had I smoked another bowl I have no doubt there would have been more shenanigans in my notes. I didn’t, though — I just rode the wave of the first bowl for a while instead.
So, yeah. Needless to say I was pretty surprised by Morning Dew. The name and the nugs just seemed so … I don’t know … harmless? And when you couple that with the advice from the budtender, I thought I’d be on my way to Mellow City shortly after smoking. I was in two-brain cell territory instead, and while it came out of nowhere, to be honest, I can’t wait to go back.