I had planned to review an actual booze, but the day I sat down to do it, my dealer texted: he was in. A Dunedin without fellow students had turned me lazy, but for both Flo and O Week I had missed out on the hundie bag deals. I couldn’t do three weeks in a row.
After a quick trip to the local supermarket carpark, I was home, and ready for the sesh.
This blunt made me wish I knew anything about strains, because whatever and wherever this one came from was incredible.
It gave me a bouncy kind of high. Usually I get a heavy – my body and soul sink into the couch and I watch others around me, but don’t listen. This time, I hear everything. My head bobs from flatmate to flatmate. The tone of my voice is calm, but authoritative. We’re playing Fuck, Marry, Kill, but I feel like I am in the midst of some important, robust conversation. Like we’re about to fix the economy or some shit.
I ate until I physically couldn’t eat anymore, which definitely wasn’t healthy, but I think my newfound energy burned it all before I fell asleep, because I felt fine the next day. Wild considering I definitely ate a whole Countdown cooked chicken ($12 stuffed saged onion, size large) on my own.
What really gave the weed that extra something special was the impeccable salesman of the dealer. He texts his customers like twice a week with deals and updates, which I’ve never experienced before. My last deals barely even replied to my requests for green, let alone get in touch when they’ve got some new strain they are particularly excited about. I don’t know your name, or what you do outside of this business, but thank you for your service, sir.
Taste Rating: 42069/10
Froth Level: Having an intense debate with your flatmate about whether or not you would fuck Elon Musk if you had the chance
Pairs well with: Going to a flat party with people you knew from high school but having a good time
Tasting notes: Nana’s tears if she knew I smoked