Ever since I got my medical license a few years ago, I’ve noticed that I’m a lot less concerned about wasting weed. I was never somebody who had to totally cash a bowl to that point where all of the residual ash and bud seems to magically disappear. I’m not that kind of smoker. A few hits off a regular old hand piece does me good, and typically for a few hours. I may re-up now and then, but a hit or two is typically all I need at that point. An eighth lasts me a month.
That said, even when I lived somewhere with only black market availability and prices at $75/eighth, I rarely needed to scrimp. But I always finished my bowl. I never knew what I was getting–could have been an indica or sativa or 50/50 hybrid. I didn’t really have a choice. There was always some bike messenger service that would pop up with strain options and a three hour delivery window, but they were usually shut down within a month.
So I stuck with my dealer. And she would always tell me the name of the strain, maybe she’d even have a couple of options, but let’s be real: This shit was grown somewhere far away or in a bootleg grow house and probably shipped via FedEx, with minimal conversation between sender and receiver. Because it’s a dangerous business. Who knows what the fuck strain I was being sold?
Things are different now.
Now I walk into my state-licensed dispensary and choose from a selection of clearly labeled weed grown under luxurious conditions and displayed in shiny glass jars under bright lights. I can open a jar and take a close look, a big whiff. Put the jar down. Browse for 20 minutes, or a half hour if I want, between something like 20 strains. There is a person behind the counter who has probably smoked every single strain I am considering. She’s probably high on one or two of them right now! And if I’m still not sure after consulting with her, I can step back, google the strain, and get a concise picture of what to expect via a cannabis review site like Leafly or MedicalMarijuanaStrains.
And even though slight changes in growing conditions/treatment can impact the strain’s quality, you pretty much know that, like, if you enjoyed the Blue Dream last time, you’ll like it again this time. There’s consistency there. And I can get four times the product for what I was paying on the East Coast black market, easy. Life is good here in Colorado.
And this is where the problem begins:
I start the evening cleaning the apartment, maybe out for dinner; I want that uplifting high. I pack a bowl of, say, Dream Star or Blue Dream (because dreams are awesome!) for that heady effect that allows me to get lost in tasks or conversation, along with a subtle energy. Then I finish cleaning–or come home–ready to relax and delve into this week’s American Horror Story. I don’t want more Blue Dream. I want to take a hit or two of something that will maintain the head high, but make me feel a little heavy. So I pull out the Blackberry Kush.
I guess I could plan further ahead, plan better. Know that all I need is a pinch in that bowl. But I’m a stoner. I don’t think that far ahead. I waste weed. And I really don’t feel that bad about it.
Weed is legal, man. I can afford to be picky.