As dawn cracked like a broken egg upon the sordid pavement of suburbia, I found myself clutching a mug of black coffee that looked like something dredged from the La Brea Tar Pits. The night before, in a fit of reckless consumerism and high adventure, I had acquired a sack of Banana Cream from the green-thumbed outlaws at RI’s Finest Gardens. This herbal concoction would be my talisman, my psychotropic Sherpa, as I embarked on a quest fraught with peril: the acquisition of a nightstand.
The Banana Cream hit my nostrils like a fistful of tropical napalm, a pungent symphony of ripe tropical fruit, lemon zest, and pine needles. While I rolled a joint that resembled a disfigured toad, anticipation builds. After a decade in the trenches of THC and I still rolled like a neophyte, a testament to the enduring apathy of the human condition. With my keys and my misshapen botanical torpedo, I sallied forth into the maw of capitalism, the local strip mall.
The drive was a gray haze, the landscape a blur of existential boredom painted in strokes of drab asphalt and melancholic yellow lines. Freddy King was belting out blues on the radio, a sonic backdrop occasionally marred by the static noise of a small craft advisory weather report. I arrived at the retail leviathan’s doorstep, the parking lot a waterlogged testament to man’s hubris, and retrieved the Banana Cream joint, tucked away like a shaman’s feather behind my ear.
Ignition. Fire. Inhale. The smoke cascaded down my throat, a liquid balm for the soul, and I exhaled a cloud of rebellion against the sterility of the world. The high hit me with the subtlety of a sledgehammer – 19% THC, a statistic as meaningless in the moment as it was profound. The nightstand expedition was on.
The fluorescent belly of the beast engulfed me, its luminescence a stark contrast to the gray abyss outside. The post-holiday decorative detritus lay around like cultural carrion. I lumbered towards the promise of home furnishings, each choice a mocking echo of my decision. The Banana Cream’s embrace made the world a pinpoint, and the only truth I knew was my own consciousness and the need for that damn nightstand.
Choices sprawled before me – two drawers, three drawers, hardwood, laminate. My destiny aligned with a nightstand of oak, a piece that whispered tales of my grandfather’s decrepit hunting lodge. Off the shelf, I grabbed a monolithic cardboard box filled with my quarry. “DIY” they proclaimed, “Do it yourself, sucker,” they meant. The box, a 50-pound beast, sneered at me, the laughing men on the team carry logo a judgement of my selection.
A cashier with tattooed arches for brows bid me a New Year’s greeting as I heaved my prize onto a cart. Ahead lay hours of battle with screws and planks, the inevitable surplus parts and the “it’s not the craftsmanship, it’s the damn floor” excuses. Yet, as I pushed my cargo through the deluge outside, a grin split my face. The day was salvaged; Banana Cream awaited at my fortress of solitude, ready to envelop me in its sweet, sinsemilla embrace.
A nocturnal odyssey fueled by RI’s Finest Gardens’ Banana Cream flower transformed a quest for a nightstand into a comedic ballet of consumerism and craftsmanship, garnishing it a whimsical 3 out of 5 Tokes, with a nod to the joy of DIY victories and a mellow buzz that would welcome a repeat encounter..
💨💨💨 3/5 Tokes