Smoked dry

DRUGS ISSUE: Why I couldn't handle being legal

Too much vs. enough

DRUGS Personally, I'll smoke any dried-up old horseshit you hand me. I don't care. Brown buds, flat buds, wet seedy buds, leaves, stems, branches, even stuff that's already been smoked. You got it, let's roll it.

But I'm also not stupid: pricey gorgeous buds are the best. The tight-purple supernugs have the best smell and the best taste; they are the ultimate gateway to the total marijuana experience. On the other hand, top-shelf Prada buds will fuck you up, financially and otherwise. A dab will definitely do you.

Except at my house. If there's weed anywhere near me, I'll smoke it right up. I don't care how sacred the bud is, or even if I had to scalp a hippie just to pay for it. I am a high-energy, compulsive, scatterbrained cat-lady freak-out type who isn't a major boozer, thank God. So I'm basically the perfect candidate for chain-spliffing. And I don't have a problem with that, in case the church people were wondering. I need my weed and I need it to be abundant and cheap. That's why being a legal stoner smoked me dry.

It took me about three months in the fully legit scene to finally realize that my zero cash flow was entirely the weed's fault. Oh, of course, of course: weed doesn't smoke people; people do. I know all that. But I'm telling you, sister––you need to get a load of this dispensary weed. It will blow your mind and bring you to your knees (and don't bother getting up, honey, because you'll have to blow a lot of stoners to make your rent at these rates). The buds at the pot clubs are so purple, so crystal-y and seductive that it's not offensive in the least to admit they were asking for it — for me to smoke every last one of them, that is. Like Jeffrey Dahmer, I couldn't help myself.

No, the pressure of constant availability was simply too much. I couldn't deal with all that convenience. Three blocks away was just too close. Realistically, the pot club would need a moat filled with cannibals and a legion of snipers with perfect aim to keep a person like me away. And imagine — I am just one Roberta Seawhore among many. I was there every other day, talking weed sass with the staff, sampling this, sampling that, always walking out with at least two to three kinds of Cannabis Cup–level bud products and paraphernalia. Long gone were the silly days of yore when I'd have to go through lazy stoner drug mules, who would maybe show up six days later, if ever, with a few scraps of pot-related plant parts that crawled directly out of a witch's humid crotch. Ga. How plebeian.

So who did I think I was with my fancy-ass buds, anyway — the pope? I'm the kind of broad who shops flip-flops on the Payless sale rack––and now I'm some ganja quality-control expert? Please. "But it's medicine," I reminded myself daily. "You legally need to smoke an enormous amount of papal-quality weed, Roberta. That's why the nice pot-doctor lady prescribed you the EZ Vape2––because you are sick. You have insomnia, dude. Because of your very critical medical-marijuana-necessitating crazy-head condition, you not only deserve the city's sweetest buds, you simply must have them, 24/7, even if it makes you homeless. Relax, marijuana is good for you."

Here's what I learned: Pot clubs are perfect for yuppies who posses a freakish sense of self-control. Everyone else is too low budge.

Which is exactly why, one foggy new-moon morning, I looked deep into my dark Persephone soul and mustered the courage to do the unthinkable: I set fire to my pot card. A few bittersweet tears of relief (mixed with intense pangs of regret and panic) elbowed their way out my left eye as I watched that pretty little pot card burn in the cat dish. Sigh. Heavy is my heart under the weight of the world. Then I rolled a fat one.


Well written. I enjoyed reading this piece.

Posted by That One Girl on Aug. 19, 2010 @ 12:53 pm

Roberta Seawhore is a fabulous writer.

I had pretty much given up on ever finding a good writer anymore at The SF Bay Guardian. Most have the depth of an oil slick that you find under an old leaky car that's been sitting unused for months in a garage driveway.

About all they're good for is turning out the same old tired rhetorical formulas in order to please Big Daddy at the top of their food chain. They prove once again the truth of Gore Vidal's old adage: "No talent is not enough."

However, Roberta Seawhore has both talent and a life, and also writes for The Guardian. Imagine that. Who'd a' thunk?

Her tale about marijuana reminds me of a friend of mine, a brilliant, outrageous drag queen who died, sadly, from liver cancer at a young age.

For years, my friend had been unable to stop using pot. Although living in Oregon, she came regularly to SF to get her pot fixes. The best stuff around, she always said.

After she was diagnosed with liver cancer, the time approached for a last-ditch, horrendous surgery aimed at saving her life (maybe). To everyone's amazement, she stopped using pot for a few days before the surgeons cut her open. They discovered that her condition was hopeless.

A few days after the surgery, she had to have some pot again. She found someone who got her pot-laced brownies. She gulped one down and immediately got very sick. A few months later, she was dead.

The medical industry didn't help her, and neither did the pot industry.

She would have had a far more satisfying life, despite her early death, if she had been able to kick the pot addiction years ago. But she couldn't.

She loved the dealers here.

Posted by Arthur Evans on Aug. 19, 2010 @ 4:00 pm

I suppose it's kinda fun to read this lady's pot-musings but what's the point here? Cali weed is too good and expensive so instead contribute to Mexican cartels' bottom line? You know, the ones that are cutting each others heads off and growing shitty herb in our protected national parks?

Posted by Rob G on Aug. 20, 2010 @ 9:26 am

Dear Arthur Evans and That One Girl,

Thank you for your kinds words...and thank you for being bothered to write. Good to know I'm not the only pirate whore around these parts...
Arthur, there are many excellent writers at the Guardian. Johnny R.H. and Marke B. are two of the best in the city, for example...


And as for YOU, "Rob G,"

You missed my point. I'm saying SUPPORT INDEPENDENT GANJA GROWERS. When I say "drug mule," I'm joking...duh. Where the fuck are you from? Drug mules are underage slave labor prostitutes who swallow heroin and take airplanes and then shit out clean bags of dope in bathtubs. Don't you watch CSI? Were you born in an iPhone?
Buy local weed. I like the analogy of a farmer's market. Buy your goods from local growers, not from Whole Foods.

Posted by Roberta Seawhore on Aug. 22, 2010 @ 3:02 pm

I honestly think that if you smoke pot, it's probs a good idea to get legal. I can't argue against that, and the lady who I saw to get my card scared the shit out of me for not being legal already. I burned my card, but I still have my certificate. Say what you like, but Roberta is NOT dumb.

But then, again, if you smoke pot, you should also know who grows it, where it comes from. We are conditioned to think of growing marijuana as criminal activity, so people shy away from owning up to what they do and what they buy. That's bad because then you don't know the quality of your weed -- you don't know if it's organic or not. I would never buy shit off the street. That's crazy. Like gay marriage, however, when it goes legal it will be a boomerang will eventually be a non-issue.


Posted by Roberta Seawhore on Aug. 22, 2010 @ 3:26 pm

Your such a cry baby. Ya weed ruined your life omg its all weeds fault. Psh. Millions of people in america do it and they do alright. Its your fault dude, you know why? Well weed is not physically addicting. All of you saying weed is bad are a bunch of conservative bitches. Cannaboids in marijuana shrink tumor size and kill cancer cells. You guys are so pathetic blaming a plant that until 1937 was LEGAL. Ya thats right. They also used it for medicine. Hey guess what. You can not overdose from marijuana! You would have to smoke or ingest 1500 pounds of it and fast. I challenge you to do that. Total deaths from marijuana in the last 10000 years a big fat 0. Another lie you probably believe is that weed kills brain cells. Weed doesn't kill brain cells lack of oxygen kills brain cells. The test they ran was a joke. They strapped masks on monkeys and pumped them full of marijuana smoke for long periods of time. If you go 6 minutes with out oxygen it cause irreversible brain damage. But of course it was weeds fault right. Say what ever you want but weed is not going anywhere. Weed did not ruin your life you ruined your life.

Posted by What? on Sep. 03, 2010 @ 6:56 pm

not. getting. it.

Posted by marke on Sep. 03, 2010 @ 8:37 pm

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