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Okay guys, here's a fun little story that's been hanging on the tip of my tongue at every social event for the last year and a half. The day my best friend and I lost our minds. I'd been associated with all things marijuana for years by that point, but my friend (we'll call her Cindy) was still relatively new and eager to expand her palette. So when we stopped by my wonderful dealer Franks house and she saw those chocolate-chip packed brownies sitting on his counter I already knew we'd be taking some home. With minimal convincing, we each bought one.
Now, for the sake of my own dignity I'm going to have to pause here. I live in an area where the weed is pretty potent. In the average batch of weed brownies in my area, you'd use about a half ounce in total and be set for the rest of the night easily. So when Frank announced he'd more than doubled the amount of butter he usually used, I was excited to say the least. He said at our weight (about a hundred pounds each) a half of the brownie would be more than enough to give us a good night, and I trust that college drop-out with my life, so that's what we ate... at first.
An hour of us eating pizza and chilling out at our local stoner-park and we still hadn't felt the affects. So we did what any unreasonable and impatient teenagers would do. We finished the brownie. None of you can pretend to be shocked by that, it's a very common trend we see among potheads. In our case, we just so happened to do it about three minutes before the first half kicked in. Which is when the danger started. It was getting to be the end of the night, the time where the police began patrolling the area in hopes of finding something exactly like this. So once again, like the dumb teenagers we never claimed not to be, we set out in her car for a new place to hang.
Now, by this point we were relatively okay. Somewhere in the back of my mind I was aware this was just the beginning but for the moment I was relaxing to the sound of classic rock playing through her speakers. We debated a new place to go, and quickly found our options to be slim. My house was filled with nosy children and hers with equally nosy grandparents. So that was out. Pizza places were all mostly closed by now. The Auto Shop that most other teenagers smoked at was currently a no-go due to a kid with a rather large-mouth in class. So we decided to soothe our stomachs first, heading off to the nearest McDonald's.
We arrived with little to no problems, but the high was only getting stronger and we realized that we were eventually going to have to find a place to lie down because this shit is getting wild. We headed back to the bathrooms to throw some cold water on our faces (does that ever really help?) and on our way out somehow managed to walk right through a little kid's birthday party. In the moment, it was oddly surreal. Adults gave us quizzical looks as the un-concered child tore open sloppily wrapped gifts. Once we were safely in the car we complained about how there was a four year old's birthday party at a McDonald's at 11:30 at night. Because that really wasn't fair.
Now, we were beginning to run out of ideas as far as places to go and with no end in sight to this high, it was beginning to become a problem. Realistically, we should have just stayed in the parking lot until we came up with a plan. The problem with that was Cindy was driving and sure that it would look odd if we just sat there, and I was far too brain-dead to argue by that point so we took off again.
We drove for what felt like absolute hours, but in reality was probably like twenty minutes. I couldn't tell you for sure because I was laid up in the backseat watching the lights flash against the window and coming up with some sort of scheme I'd long since forgotten about by sobriety. I told her we should drive to her boyfriend's house, and she insisted he'd leave her for this sort of offense. Bored and beginning to become woozy from the swerving driving, I told her to just drive us back to Franks. That, she could do. A ten minute drive, as it turned out. Cool. What could possibly go wrong in that short amount of time? Apparently, a lot.
We were literally about half a minute from his apartment building. She had one more turn to go to enter the parking lot. I laid back down, content to stare at the roof for that last bit of time. She hit the breaks suddenly, and I nearly fell onto the car floor. Too confused to be annoyed, I poked my little head up to see what was going on. She was parked, alright. But in traffic. The wrong side of traffic to be exact. I lazily told her to move just as I saw a pair of bright lights and hear squeaking tires. It wasn't until she'd already gotten into the parking lot that it hit me we were actually almost in a car accident, and the ensuing panic (and throwing up) was a little too late.
The rest of the night was dis-interesting after that, but to this day whenever Cindy tries convincing me she is a good driver, I am brought back to that moment of edible-ensued stupidity.