This is a picture of the inside of my dispensary, which is literally 2 tenths of a mile from my house. I probably shouldn't call it my dispensary lest you get the idea that I'm some kind of old-aged stoner, who doesn't get out of bed until taking a big long draw on a fancy bong made of jade and blown glass. It's not like I go in there everyday.
Well, actually I do go in there just about everyday, because my dog Lucy loves the free treats (THC-free) and the attention she garners from the crunchy woo-woo "Florists."
You heard me right. Just as the folks who make coffee st Starbucks are barristas, the kids (anyone under 50) who peddle the indicas and sativas in every ingestible shape or ignitable format, have elevated themselves to Florists.
I, myself, will make a purchase every two weeks or so. My vice are the low dosage Petra Moroccan Mints, that help ease the anxiety during these tumultuous times. They don't make me high, per se, unless I forget when I've taken one and an hour later accidentally popped another minty breath/mind refresher in my mouth. But I do love eavesdropping on the pretentious Florists as they go about selling their wares and the various strains.
"This one is called Super Boof, it's got hints of blueberry and will produce a relaxed, sleepy high."
"OK Kush, this could make you giggly and will definitely produce the munchies and make you a Door Dash Frequent Diner."
"Leafly named this one their Strain of the year, it tastes earthy and funky and it has caryophyllene so it's gonna burn with a sweet aroma. Many of my clients say it's their favorite."
All this high falutin danky talk makes me laugh. Not the giggly high induced by THC. But real laughter brought on by such contrasting irony.
Way back when, we got our weed from Skinny Dave, a high school burnout who also used to work with me at the Spring Valley Jack in the Box. He was a Jeff Spiccoli look alike and sound alike, only he weighed half as much. He'd wear a size 26 waist and was always pulling his pants up.
"I don't need any belts, I'd rather spend my money on Jamaica Gold, dude."
And in college our weed was brought to us by Barry, a Syracuse high school substitute math teacher, who when he wasn't explaining quadratic equations, would roam the floors of Sadler Hall dispensing the worst imaginable marijuana on the planet. Pretty sure it was grown in DeWitt.
Don't know why I chose to write a whole blog post about the weed store up the block from my house. I had another topic in mind. A really funny one. But I can't remember what it was.
That happens.
A lot.
