Confessions of a Picky Weed Waster

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?

Sometimes I got “sleepy weed,” and sometimes I got “awake weed.” Sometimes I purchased weed that made me feel strung out, and sometimes I wound up with weed that didn’t make me feel high at all. I really didn’t have a choice. If I absolutely hated a strain, I’d bug her until the next shipment came through and then give the old stuff away. But in general I took what I got and I finished it. All of it.

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.

I like to have a selection of different hybrids lying around, and at least one solid indica. A sativa-leaning, bright and social hybrid is perfect for conversation, while straight-up sativas will geek me out like bad cocaine. And having an indica-leaning hybrid is mandatory for couch-locked nights when I just want to get lost in a movie or book. Indica alone makes me heavy and lazy, but I don’t feel high; the sativa head-high is necessary for total immersion. Indica alone is perfect for the end of the night when I want to maintain just a little longer but know I’ll be going to bed soon.

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.

Shit, I still have a bowl full of Blue Dream. There was a time I would have carved that chunk of half-burned Blue Dream out, stuck it in a baggie and saved it for later. But, to be honest, I just don’t do that. Not anymore. I throw the shit away. It stinks and it doesn’t taste good. And I have at least a gram of it left in my stash of 10 strains (yes, I just counted them). Then I pack a fresh bowl of 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.