Dear Wana Raspberry Limeade Indica Gummy
On being KINDa old
I am a person who eats a weed gummy and feels nothing after 45 minutes. I am a person who thinks the gummy is broken. Old. Not working. I am a person who eats more. I am a person whose first dose finally metabolizes and hits. I am a person whose second dose kicks in shortly after. I am a person overwhelmed by the combined effects of both doses.
Dear Wana Raspberry Limeade Indica Classic Gummy paired with that little cookie my friend Jordan gave me at work, you are not relaxing as much as you are a flat-out smack to my head. A slap. A menace. A bad, bad edible. Like in cartoons when they have that halo of twinkling stars and little birds orbiting their heads. Like that. I feel some sort of sorcery that pins me down and pulls my mouth into a strange upside-down smile. You are a fistfight between my anxiety and my desire to move from this bed, but this would take a giant-sized pancake flipper stuck under my body to pry me up, as I am now fused. I am one with the duvet, the pillow, the sheet wrapped round my feet. I am sleepy, heartbeaty, shaky. Is there foam in my mouth? Did he give me a Quaalude? They don’t make those anymore. Is this how you die?
I cannot get up, nor do I want to, as my children are home winding down for bed. I hear them tinkering around. I also swear I hear demons in the walls. They cannot see me like this. I am now on the floor of my bedroom in my red robe in a child’s pose. “Why do you eat the weed?” is a mantra now running laps in my mind. Grass. Hash. Mary Jane. Weed. Why do you eat weed? You are from the 1900s.
