Marijuana and Me - Part 3

The only other experience I had with California weed before I moved out west was with the same guy in college. He called himself The Cowboy, even though he grew up at the Jersey Shore. He wore a Stevie Ray Vaughn hat, western shirts, Wrangler jeans and boots. He told us that he had tripped acid over 65 times. Which he also informed us, makes you legally insane. Oh, and he was a big dude, so no one would ever fuck with him, especially after finding out LSD made him certifiably crazy! (One thing that blew was that he was one of the only guys in our dorm with a car but we were afraid to drive with him. He told us he would sometimes have flashbacks when driving and not be sure what color the traffic light was. Thanks, but no thanks. I will walk.)

Now I remember that night when I tried the California Sense for the second time. He walked by the open door of my room, popped his head in and asked if I wanted to get stoned. Why not, it was the weekend. So he gets his bong and packs it tight with that mind blowing product from California. We both take a few hits of it and then it hits me like a brick in the fucking head! I actually think I was nearly in a coma! Shit I was so fucking stoned, I broke out into a cold sweat and actually thought I was going to die. I saw the ghosts of semesters past and semesters present! And of course you start getting paranoid and weird thoughts go through you head. I kept thinking that it was either a dream or I was actually dead and stuck in Purgatory. And if I was dead, how embarrassed my parents would be when they found out their son died from smoking weed! Not the typical overdose. Not heroin, not cocaine, not too much alcohol, but weed! Who the fuck has ever died from that? (Oh, I don't know how someone can do heroin. I could never put a needle in my arm. Hell, I can even watch it on television when someone gets a needle put in their arm. Thank god I'm not diabetic and need insulin everyday.)

Needless to say, The Cowboy loved it. He laughed his ass of as I rolled up into a fetal position and drooled on my pillow. Every time we would be out somewhere he would have to tell the story of me being pale as a ghost and almost coming to the point of whimpering like a baby. Oh and whenever I would walk by his room and he was lighting up, he would say, “Hey Coop, wanna get stoned?” Then he would go into this crazy laugh that sounded like a mixture of a really high person and Satan.

I never smoked pot in college again after that, and thank god The Cowboy transferred the next semester, because that ended his constant, but well deserved ball busting of the whole situation.

To be continued...