OUR CANNABUZZ COLUMNIST had a rough week, starting with overconsumption on 4/20, followed by the loss of our greatest Granddaddy Purple, Prince. As Josh Jardine gets his head together, man, we bring in a special guest columnist—his long-suffering girlfriend. Wishing to remain anonymous (for myriad easy-to-understand reasons), let’s refer to her as “C.”
As my boyfriend recovers from his newest self-designed 4/20 challenge, AKA “How Many Marijuana Gummies Can I Fit in My Mouth at One Time?” (Answer: 28, and also, why babe? Why?), I’ve been asked to take over this week’s column.
Look, I’ll be honest: I’m not a big pothead, but I live with one. And I’m often asked what it’s like to be the girlfriend of someone so immersed in the wide, wide world of weed.
“Immersed” is an apt term. If Josh and I were hamsters, weed would be our wood shavings. There is weed everyfuckingwhere. And by that, I mean you can open any drawer, box, cabinet, Sterilite tub, suitcase, or duffle bag and find some form of weed. I’m fairly certain that glass jars of various sizes are breeding like rabbits while we sleep. If there’s a flat surface at our place, it’s ripe for the placement of weed—most likely already ground up. Which is awesome for our two cats, who have zero concerns about walking through piles of ground-up weed.
The jars. Dear god, there are so many jars, in so many sizes, filled with so many types of weed. All labeled clearly and lined up by date, right? No. Nooooo, quite the opposite. Last week, I asked what was in a jar that had burst forth from one of our overstuffed cabinets. Captain Chronic peered at it for a long moment and solemnly responded, “I think it’s weed, babe.” You… don’t… say.