When suffered to choose my favorite new strain of weed to recommend, I went from one to the other holding my sorrow—no, not my sorrow, but the incomprehensible nature of this our life. Some people go to priests, others to poetry, I to my friends, to my own heart, and to my budtender. In paraphernalia I seek something unbroken, yet rolling papers do not adhere, joints unravel in the wind, and last week the bong Leonard bought shattered like so many shells on the front lines in France. I wander among fragments for something unbroken—yet cannot grasp even that. Having said that, I’m pretty stuck on the Pirate’s Eye vape pen by Kalapooya Fire. I wonder if it’s waterproof.
All I can say is that when I had smoked the last bud of the crazy high-CBD strain called Dancehall and felt the breadth of my intoxication, I wept, for there was no more weed to smoke.