This is a do as I say, not as I do kinda post, kids. There's a message in it - not just for the consumption of weed, but for any kind of powerful plant medicine. Because it can bite you, and will.
Actually, I'm gonna pause for a second. Why am I writing a post on weed? That ain't my usual jam. I don't even smoke it (anymore), though I'm fast becoming a fan of CBD oil. The reason I'm writing a #weedcash post is that I am a Weed Hodler. Yep, I'm the proud recipient of 460 weed tokens, courtesy of the darling @richardcrill, founder of Freedom Tribe and all around good guy. What do I do with them? Well, to start with, use them to figure out what all this 'token' malarkey is all about, and, as I'm doing so, curate and earn weed tokens that are increasing in value as we speak. Exciting times on the Steem Blockchain!
Weedcash even has it's own front end. Check it out here. It's designed to run as a mirror of Steemit - everything functions just as Steemit would - except you're earning and rewarding weed tokens, based on content about - yep, weed. At this point, I feel I should come up with a synonym, but y'all know what I'm talking about, and I'd just feel silly.
So, my weed story worth telling - or the one I'm willing to tell, at least for it's entertainment value, goes a little like this.
A long, long time ago I lived in a rented property with my then boyfriend, who had a landscaping business. I'm sure his love of gardening came from his love of the green stuff. When I first met him, he was ducking into the bush (a.k.a as the forest or woods) with a backpack, because he was off to fertilise and water his crop, a dangerous game back in those days with helicopters flying over head intentionally looking for illicit drugs planted by surfers in secret forests. Anyway, by this time he had a greenhouse in the garden, where he grew native plants, and not so native plants. When we split up, I inherited some of these, and learnt to grow a few every season myself, which was fun. I mean, growing stuff is fun, whether you can smoke it or not.
Anyway, after trimming I had a lot of leaf, so thought I may as well try my hand at making some cookies. Sans internet, I was just guessing how to make them - I'd heard simmering some leaf in butter would help extract some of the THC, and I already had a great chocolate cookie recipe, so it couldn't be rocket science, could it? By my reasoning, smoking this stuff just gave you a headache, so I was going to have to use a shit ton of it to make these delights even slightly intoxicating. So, a shit ton is what I used. And I simmered it for a shit ton of time. Adding it to the mix, I tasted it, as of course, cookie dough is one of the best parts of making cookies, right? I shaped these huge saucer like things (because, by my reckoning, big is always better) and, when they came out of the oven, I ate one just before my housemates came home. We then had a cuppa, and I gave them a few cookies, which were deliciously chocolately - so deliciously chocolatey, I forgot I'd already had some dough, and one extra large one, before having another. Then another.
And then, things got a little weird. So weird, that I have absolutely downright refused to have another weed cookie, brownie, cake or whatever the hell you want to call these devil's biscuits ever again.
Weedcash is awesome. Don't be scared.
First of all, Marcus (who may or not be his real name) starts really tripping out. He wasn't really a smoker, so to be this totally baked was new to him. Shelley, his girlfriend (again, not her real name) made him a cup of tea and got him to sit down, but he was really freaking out. Like, begging us to call an ambulance freaking out. I used the only trick I knew then in my book, which was to get her to massage his knees. Hey, it worked at high school when we ate slivers of hash before exams - the feeling was sweet, and better than exam panic. Leaving her massaging his knees, I thought I'd check the mail.
And promptly got lost.
It seemed the most obvious thing to do was to go the back way to get the mail, because this way I'd be less likely to be seen by anyone I knew on the street. It was literally twenty steps to the mail box, but this sounded like a better plan. In retrospect, I think I thought I'd reduce the amount of exposure by at least ten steps by going out the back, down the deck stairs, up the side of the house, through the garage, and then to the mailbox. But that wasn't what happened. I turned left instead of right, and ended up in the garden, having no idea what I was doing there. I eventually found my way to the front garden, knowing the mailbox was somewhere in the vicinity, but forgetting what I was meant to do with it. The garage door locked behind me and it took me a good half hour to figure out how to open the roller door (do NOT try to open a roller door in this state) - rather than going back in through the laundry door and back out the front. Then, being out the front, I shut the roller door and made the wise decision to not go back in that way, but use the front door, which was firmly locked, because Marcus and Shelley were a bit worried about burglars, because they'd been hearing some strange noises coming from the garage.
Time did wibbly wobbly time things as we sat in the loungeroom and reassured Marcus. I mean, I knew I was utterly baked, but I also knew I just had to let it wear off, but he wasn't so savvy. He definitely thought someone was breaking in and/or he was going to die and/or I had put something else in the cookies. The best thing to do was turn off all the lights, take the phone of the hook, and pretend we weren't home, just in case anyone made things worse by calling over and god forbid, talking to us and wanting to us to respond in any coherant way.
After some hours I was utterly bored with the situation and retreated to my room, where I proceeded to entertain myself rearranging my bedroom, which was fun, and writing for a bit. I used to get super creative when I smoked, so unlike my housemates, who were in survival mode, I was using my time wisely. When I finally decided to go to sleep, it really wasn't pleasant. People kept coming in and out of my room and talking to me and waking me up. None of this actually happened - we'd locked the front door pretty well, even taking the precaution of sliding the sideboard in front of it, but my brain was doing pretty funny things.
In the morning, my housemates were not happy at all. They pretty much believed I'd intentionally poisoned them and moved out a week later. I couldn't have planned it better - in fact, if I'd known this would happen, I would have given them cookies earlier. I'd never forgiven Shelley for spilling blue heaven cordial on the carpet and not cleaning it up, or washing dishes without the plug in in the middle of a drought.
When I told people who often made cookies the story, lamenting on how they never told me how full on they can be, they asked how much I used in my mix. They looked at me incredulously, as if I'd put arsenic in the cookies. Turned out my proportions and my excessive simmering was probably not the best way to make cookies that wouldn't half kill people. Fun times.
The moral of the story, of course, is that you should know what you are doing with natural medicines before you dose yourself to infinity and paranoia, and possibly worse.
This wasn't the first 'I'm so stoned I am dying and need to call an ambulance' story in my life. But that's for another time.
Have you had tripped out experiences with funny cookies?
Are you a #weedcash hodlr? Or are you using your weed on the Weedcash network like I make weed butter?