High class

We all know I’m a big fan of wine. And gin. And beer on a warm night on a patio. Basically, I like booze.


Sometimes, though, it’s good to broaden your horizons and explore other things—or at least so I thought. Then came the incident I’ve come to fondly refer to as Fear and Loathing in Etobicoke.

Bogart and I have indulged in some pot brownies on occasion, with no problem. A friend of mine makes special granola bars, so being the hippie I am, I decided to give those a try. The first batch had very little effect, which was a disappointment to a lightweight such as myself. I expressed this to my friend, who took my complaint seriously and upped the ante in the next batch. They hung out in my fridge for a while, until one night at Bogart’s place in Etobicoke the opportunity presented itself.

‘Want to split one?’ Bogart asked, as we settled in to watch a terrible horror movie on Netflix. ‘Sure,’ I said, recalling but ignoring my friend’s suggestion to only have a bite (we all have turning point moments we come to regret, this is one of mine). An hour later, sleepier but no higher, we decided to call it a night. I chalked it up to the way my body metabolizes drugs and mentally called it a wash.

Another hour later, I found myself struggling crawl out of a hallucination/dream that I can only describe as the terrifying boat ride from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory:


I put my hand on the wall, trying to stop the spins like any seasoned drinker. It did not work. I also thought I might throw up and/or pee the bed, neither of which appealed to me even in my delirious state. I managed to say as much to Bogart, who warned me that he went to the bathroom 10 minutes earlier and it was ‘a bit of a trip.’ Fucking great.

Thusly warned, I stumbled my way to his ensuite, where I was too high/terrified/sick to close the door. I am ridiculously private about bathroom stuff, so peeing with the door open isn’t a relationship milestone I was looking to reach five months (or years) in. But given the choice between turning on the light and burning my retinas or peeing in the pitch dark in my fucked up state, I decided our relationship could handle a little number one.

I managed to pee without incident, which just left me to deal with the hallucinations/spins and overwhelming feeling that I was going to be sick. Cool. Another fun fact about me: I will go to great lengths to avoid throwing up. It comes out my nose every time, and I am a big baby about it. I cry, and I don’t like people witnessing any of this. I’m also a sympathetic puker, which means if I see it or hear it, I’ll likely join in. It’s not a fun time for anyone.

As I sat whimpering in the bathroom with my head in the toilet, Bogart was trying to vomit-proof my side of the bed, while pretty fucking high himself. He had to occasionally stumble over to help me drink water since I was shaking too much to hold a glass by myself, and at one point during his absence I started crying because I was convinced I needed to go to the hospital. Eventually my stomach won the war it was waging against my willpower, and I spent what felt like hours throwing up and eventually dry heaving. Bogart thinks it was closer to 20 minutes, but perception is reality, and he was also not sober. Still sensitive to my weird need for privacy, he sat just outside the bathroom, water and washcloth at the ready whenever I grunted at him.

After what felt like an eternity, and comfortable in the fact that I had nothing left to sacrifice to the Toilet God, I decided I wanted to leave the cold bathroom floor for the safety and comfort of the bed. I didn’t trust myself to stand up and walk, and the thought of crawling made my stomach churn. In my infinite wisdom, I decided scooting was the best option. So, like a dog with an itchy butt, I scooted my way across Bogart’s bedroom floor until I could pull myself up to the bed with as little effort as possible.

Like this, but slower. And forever burned in Bogart’s memory.

We both forgot about that special moment in time until the next night, while rehashing our evening of hell. I’m so glad we remembered, since it’s the sort of thing we’ll treasure forever. On the positive side, I told him that’s pretty much me at my worst, and he still wants to move in with me. It’s possible he’s still high, but the lease is signed regardless. What a fun bonding experience that turned out to be. I think I’ll stick to booze for the foreseeable future.





6 responses to “High class”

  1. Had a similar experience with weed brownies years ago in a shared pad during college. We ended up with them after someone left them there on a typical weekend party we held, made by their GRANDMA. There we were my roommate and I, on a weeknight, attempting to watch a movie but both of us slowly slid down from couch pose to laying on floor “god help me” pose. I think I crawled to bed from there. I haven’t, and won’t touch another one those things again. No clue why they are so popular? Unless the doses are typically ultra weak or something…

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