A few months back, I had a big surgery to prepare for that I was not looking forward to. I was to be put under anesthesia for hours and was prepared for some of the worst pain of my life.
I’m a real pansy when it comes to pain, and I was quite nervous. I’ve had bad experiences with pain medication in the past, so I decided to prepare myself for the pain in… more unique ways.
I live in California, where medical marijuana cards are as popular as a knock off Louis Vuitton handbag or a set of fake tits. It is not uncommon to know at least a handful of people who tote their marijuana card bottom-bunk to their driver’s license in their wallet.
I’ve never been a very big marijuana smoker. I have always wanted to be one, but it just never stuck. I envision myself a really funny, entertaining pothead. Instead, I was the ‘high’ lunatic in the corner, petting the carpet or talking to the recluse house cat more times than not.
Regardless, I decided to give it another try. Maybe I wouldn’t become a permanent pothead, but I would definitely become a semi-permanent pothead while recovering from surgery. I’ve gotten really into the show ‘Weeds’ on Netflix lately, and that just further pushed me down the pothead path.
I hopped on my computer, found an ‘Alternative Medicine’ doctor’s office, and called to make an appointment. They asked me to bring a government ID and a copy of medical literature that proved I have some sort of ‘condition’ that would require this particular form of ‘medication.’ Seeing my hypochondriac ways, that was easy to do. I printed off my list of ‘medical conditions’ online (A.K.A. every ridiculous reason I’ve ever been to the doctor) and was on my merry marijuana way.
I arrived at the ‘Alternative Medicine’ location, and the receptionist gave me a clipboard with a stack of paperwork to fill out. I found it ironic that an establishment that was giving me state legal rights to smoke something that comes from the ground required more paperwork than purchasing a car. I’ve purchased homes that required less paperwork than this place mandated. Regardless, I filled out the encyclopedia of paperwork and hung around in the waiting room with a giant golden retriever who was sound asleep on the floor.
I think he was high.
Within fifteen minutes, my name was called, and they had me enter an empty room. The only items present in the room were a desk, a chair, and a computer. The staff explained to me that the doctor would be with me momentarily. They directed me to sit down at the desk. As in, the chair facing the computer. As though it were my very own office.
I sat down and pretended to be a doctor waiting on her next patient to arrive. ‘No! You don’t get your pot card!’ ‘LIAR! FAKE ILLNESS! NO POT CARD FOR YOU, EITHER!’ I entertained myself for a few minutes, and before I knew it, a man popped up on the computer screen and introduced himself.
Doctor: Hello, my name is Dr. Smith. I see here from your files that you have quite a few medical conditions.
Wanna Be Pothead: Yep. That is correct.
Doctor: And you suffer from migraines…?
Wanna Be Pothead: Correct again!
Doctor: Okay. Thank-You, have a nice day.
Potential Pothead: That’s it? Want to know about my upcoming surgery?
Doctor: That’s it! You can exit the office now, and the girls at the front desk will help you from here.
Immediately, I was certain I wasn’t ‘accepted’ into the cool group of alternative medicine pot smokers. You know, seeing how quickly I was interviewed by this doctor who appeared to be sitting at home in his kitchen…in his bathrobe.
I walked back out to the waiting room and approached the reception desk.
Receptionist: You’re done?
Eager Uncertain Pothead: Yeah… he just asked me two questions and said goodbye.
Receptionist: Well, you had really good medical documents.
Excited Pothead: Hmm… I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen my medical history as a ‘good’ thing. But I hear ya.
Receptionist: Okay, stand up against the wall so I can take your picture for your card.
BONAFIDE POTHEAD: Oh! I’m approved?!
Receptionist: Yep! Say ‘Cheese.’
Legit Pothead: MARI-FUCKING-JUANA!!!!
Within a matter of minutes, I was a medicinal marijuana cardholder. I felt fantastic! I paid the lady and asked her where I go to buy my ‘medicine.’ She directed me to the closest dispensary… which just so happened to be within walking distance from their ‘medical office.’
Coincidence? I think not.
I walked into an unmarked office that could have very well been Fort Knox disguised as a shitty office park. A 400 lb man guarded the entry like the gatekeeper to all clubs I’d failed miserably sneaking into during my late teens. He asked for my paperwork from the doctor, and I shoved it through the slot of the bulletproof glass window.
He buzzed me through the gates and I stepped into Marijuana Heaven.
I had to take a few deep breathes as I was not quite anticipating what my eyes were met with. It was like the magical Willy Wonka Factory of medical marijuana shops.
They rattled off about six thousand different facts about how marijuana can significantly help reduce pain after surgery… and a bunch of other shit I wasn’t paying attention to. I’m quite sure I had a contact high once I entered the pearly gates of Marijuana Heaven.
“Load me up!” I told them.
I left with candy, skin creams, suckers, a marijuana pipe, and of course, smokeable product.
I couldn’t wait for my surgery. I decided to test the goodies out the night before. I hid in my garage, ate a piece of my ‘pot candy,’ and then it hit me: the deja vu of my college days. I may have been sitting in my garage, but in my semi-stoner mind, I was back at the frat house petting a piece of carpet that I might have thought was the recluse house cat.
I am not a good stoner. I am not funny. I am not entertaining. I am a freak, and I scare myself with bizarre thoughts.
I sat on the cold garage floor and had a few life epiphanies. I pondered a new hairstyle, admired the epoxy garage flooring, and realized I have really large knuckles. I tried to spell my last name backward and got stuck on the second letter, pondered the best stain removers while staring at my innocent washer and dryer… and then woke up the next morning in my bed.
Permanent pothead? Probably not. Was it fun to revel in the past of my indiscriminate youth, filled with memories of carpet petting and recluse cat swooning?