For over a decade, I’ve lived in New York City where weed has alway been a phone call away, where a delivery person arrives at the door wearing a suit, holding a briefcase full of plastic cube containers stickered with The Simpsons or SpongeBob or some other stoner loving cartoon.
Each cube would have a different strain printed on it, but it didn’t take a brain surgeon to see it was all the same overpriced, midgrade bud. But I never dared say a condescending word because I was grateful for whatever I could get my paws on.
Now, my collection consists of myriad chemovars, and my edibles and topicals drawer overfloweth. My indecisiveness is worsened by the ever present question of not “what” to pack a bowl with, but exactly “which” lovely bud will be next? Cue choirs of angels singing. It’s miraculous. Truly. Yet, this is not reality for many people across our weed-conflicted nation…unless, perhaps, you’re blessed with the “gift.”
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