breakfast candy

breakfastcandy

I drink. I don’t smoke pot. It’s not because I think pot is more dangerous or anything, I just can’t buy it at the corner Rite-Aid and I happen to be a man of convenience. Pot is a sneaky drug that has manifested itself into a ton of forms so when you live in a state like California, where pot is easier to buy than most produce, you never know what you can and can’t eat. That being said – it’s story time.

One morning before work, I was grabbing some fruit out of the fridge when I noticed, buried on the very back of a shelf was a small package of chocolate candies. Considering they had been discarded into the black hole that is the back corner of the fridge, I’d assumed that their owner had forgotten about them. Even so, I’m sure my dear friend would forgive me for sampling one of these treats.

They were Belgian chocolate dipped candied cashews. This was going to be a great way to start my day. So, like the unsuspecting protagonist who gets into trouble 12 minutes into any movie, I ate one. It was delicious. A strange after taste, but delicious.

I took one step away from the fridge towards the door thinking about how upset Tony the Tiger would be with me and my pathetic excuse for a balanced breakfast – when it hit me. The whole world slowed down as the waves of reality crashed over me. I knew what that after taste was. It tasted like a 311 concert I went to in junior high or the back room at frat parties. I had just inhaled my first ever marijuana desert, in the form of a pot truffle.

It was chewy, it was delicious, and I was high for six hours.

I whipped open the fridge and grabbed the bag of truffles. I felt like a kid who was getting broken up with for the first time – I was really hoping that I was wrong, but deep down I knew exactly what was happening. Right on the front of the bag, directly where I was hoping to see a Ghirardelli label (or even Hershey, I’m not picky) was a big green cross, mocking me. To make matters worse, directly below the cross was the phrase “Careful. High potency.”  Turns out my nutritionist was right, I do need to start reading labels of the things I eat.

Unfortunately, knowing that I had just devoured a drug whose legality is forever questioned in the state of California, didn’t help me much. I still had to be at work in 15 minutes. You can’t just call off work because you accidentally ate your room mates pot candy. “Yeah, hey, sorry, I can’t come in today because I’m accidentally super high right now.” If that were a socially acceptable excuse for missing work, nobody would ever show up for their shift at the 7-11. Then again, a lot less fake grandparents would have to die, so I guess it would have its perks.

Apparently in the faux pharmaceutical world of Dr. Mary Jane, “high potency” means “clear your schedule because you aint doin jack-shit for the rest of the day.”

I spent my drive to work trying to convince myself that “I was cool.” I felt like a surfer in an 80’s movie who just got pulled over by the cops. In between giving myself sobering pep-talks and fantasizing about what I would order for lunch, I was doing my best to go the speed limit and follow all necessary traffic laws. The problem being, I was pretty sure the speed limit was either October or a giraffe – neither of which were featured on my speedometer.

I somehow made it to work in one piece and, walking from my car to the office, was under the impression that I was a groundbreaking thinker (like DaVinci or the guy who invented chewing gum) because I could taste the weather and it tasted like purple. To this day, I don’t know what that means but I wrote it down in my notebook and underlined it a few times. There’s a chance that 200 years from now, historians will find that notebook and think I was a genius because I figured that out before anyone else. Then again, it was written underneath a joke about kids shitting themselves, so I doubt it.

I got to work and did an award-winning job of ‘keeping it cool’ so I’m pretty sure nobody noticed. Except for perhaps around mid-morning when I had to make copies. I can’t be sure, because I was at a sub-human level of consciousness but I may have stared at that copy machine for a solid 45 minutes. This was the most interesting piece of office equipment I had ever seen. I put my paper in, punched in my settings, and then just watched in awe as the laser beam zoomed up and down the page. Over and over again. The lights, the sound, the speed, the perfect repetition. It was like watching a real life light saber battle between my Contact Sheet and the Xerox Prime Copy 2400. The precision of the battle warranted jealousy from anyone possessing the nomenclatural prefix of Darth.

I didn’t snap out of my trance until a co-worker pointed out to me that I was drooling on my shoes. I was embarrassed but, considering the show I was witnessing, I felt more than justified.

The remainder of my day was recorded as fairly mundane and routine. Aside from a few emails that I may or may not have sent to God@gmail.com (I had some questions, leave me alone) I’m pretty sure I didn’t do anything else incredibly stupid or blatantly indicative of my intoxication.

Unless ordering a 5-course meal from El Pollo Loco and eating the whole thing at my desk is considered blatant. In which case, I was totally obvious.

 

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