Crossfading Cautionary-ish tale *really long*

Okay, so I've been on record as stating several times that I love a good crossfade. Get a nice drunken buzz going, smoke a little ganj to even everything out, on the right nights, there's nothing like it IMHO.

Now, I'm admittedly no stranger whatsoever to some of the less glamorous side effects and outcomes of a crossfade gone sideways somehow, if anything I should be some sort of patron saint scholar of fucking it up, because, y'know, practice makes perfect and all. But day before yesterday, I schooled even myself at how *not* to accomplish the task properly.

I will start this by pointing out first and foremost that I am currently within that time of the summer where more often than not, I like a few beers with my bowls at the end of my day. Most of the year, I hardly drink, and it seems to get reserved for the lazy days and nights in the depths of summer, I get my fill, then move on. This tends to make me go all out, and I forget sometimes how bottomless my tolerance can be.

Now, the day in question, I had spent most of smoking with both my neighbors and my brother, and like usual, we'd had plans to hang out that night. My neighbors J and C, both wanted to drink with me while we smoked, so we stocked up on a couple 40's, some tallboys, and a huge can of Foster's to start things off. I'd had a somewhat stressful couple of days before this, it's hot as balls, and it's just past 5pm so I feel less shitty about day drinking, so this first 40 oz. goes down like nothing. If you would've blinked, you would have missed it. Knowing that I had a couple of bucks still, I make my way to the Exxon down the block, and acquire another. After making it back to J and C's porch, I tear into this one, and it, too, goes down like nothing. At this point, I'm only starting to feel a mild buzz approaching from the first one, and wisely decide to wait a minute for the impending tidal wave of alcohol to catch up with me. J suggests we smoke a bowl, so I load some of the Skunk #1 I had.

This is where my body begins to put me on notice that I'm going to be fucked up, more likely sooner than later. I make it 3-4 hits into this bowl, and within seconds I feel the second 40 announce his arrival. Not wanting to prematurely over-egg this pudding of a crossfade, I decide against loading another bowl. After 10-15 minutes of shooting the shit, J and C proceed to pull out their drinks, making me instantly thirsty for another beer, even though I'm trying to pace myself.

I say 'fuck it', take my remaining couple of bucks, hit up Exxon, repeat process, begin 40 oz. #3. Which is where the wheels begin to fall off.

Normally, when I drink these 40's, 2 is my absolute limit. I might drink one tallboy further, but not a third 40.

I'm not particularly concerned about this because we're having fun, laughing a lot, it's a beautiful summer day out, it's hot, I have a lot of reasons to keep the 'fuck it, we're having a blast' attitude. About half way through this one, however, the sheer audacity of the cheap malt liquor is beginning to take a toll on my stomach, and I realize that I'm fighting back some pretty formidable nausea. Instead of doing what any sane or normal person would do, and save the other half, I just make it worse. J and C both had begun to give me shit about the declining speed of my drinking abilities, and started egging me on to chug it. Did I? Yep. I straight one-go-Van-Gogh'd that shit and fought the urge to projectile vomit for the next 15 or so minutes.

In this time, they had produced a rather large ball of resin, and insisted we at least took a few hits each to try it, which we did. This shit knocked me on my ASS. I more or less immediately regretted the decision, because I knew I had to yet again make the walk to the Exxon for more liquid courage.

As I'm sitting there, dazed, trying to regain the ability to make this trip happen, I somehow get the genius fucking idea that I need some of this Mike's Harder tallboy that C has. I ask for some, and chug (at her taunting, of course) a good portion off the top of the can. Feeling at least temporarily revived, I start making my way to the store, stumbling and staggering like a motherfucker of course, and I swear that the THC started hitting me 10x harder when I stood up and started walking.

I remember talking the cashier's ear off for a good 10 minutes, talking openly about smoking weed and shit, I think it was mostly about legalization. I remember being asked if I was good to walk, and I say yes.

With 40 oz. # 4 in tow. I start walking back. This is where I hit Mini Blackout # 1. The house is a mere 4 blocks away, and I notice as I start the walk, I at some point had opened the beer already and had started drinking on it, still in the Exxon parking lot. I have no memory of this. I do not take this as a good sign,

After only what I can assume was about 2 of the 4 blocks back, I blackout, and the next thing I come to is being back on the porch examining some extremely painful and bleeding road rash on my right wrist. According to them, I staggered back in with my beer in hand because the paper bag had torn, cussing up a storm holding my hand and wrist kinda to my chest, and all I could keep saying was ; " I ate shit! I fucking ate shit!" I remember even being aware of the little blackout at the time, but somehow this did not concern me. I was a little aware of my arm being in pain, but I was far, far too fucking drunk to feel it, and I knew it. I remember having some reservations on finishing what little remained of my 4th one, but then I loaded another fat bowl of the Skunk, and after the jarring onset of the cottons, it seemed like a better idea to finish it.

J and C both again ply me with more fat rips of this huge ball of resin, and this is where Mini Blackout # 2 happens. Apparently all we did was keep chilling and listening to music on the porch, but I guess they offered me the other 40 they had bought earlier that neither wanted, and I happily obliged. I guess I chugged that at their request, according to them. I have absolutely no memory of this. I'm told I went back to my house, and came back with another 40, my 6th. I still have no idea how I did that, I must have found money and blindly stumbled down to the store again. The last thing I remember is my friend John (different J) came over, hung out while I went in and out of consciousness, fell out of my chair, had to be helped off the porch, and walked back to my house. Where we tried to smoke, but I forgot that I smoked all my bud. Fortunately, my brother saved us by smoking a tiny piece he had left. John and I shoot the shit for a while, and I pass the fuck out.

Fast forward to the next morning where I wake up in the fucking seventh circle of Hell, hung the fuck over, dehydrated, vaguely still drunk, hand, wrist, and arm all fucked up from falling on it, and out of weed. John comes back over about an hour after I wake up and asks if I still want to travel to WA to go to a good hospital (local one is no bueno). Apparently drunk me was already making arrangements to get sober me taken care of the next day. As luck would have it, our neighbor C found out she could get an Oz. of pure CaviCone filling fronted to her if she went with us and saw her friend, so I spent the day being nursed back to health in the ER, and then we got ridiculously high to top it off when we got home. I'm still a little banged up, but I'll be aight.

Moral of the story-Don't drink 6 40's, a tallboy of Mike's Harder, and most of a giant keg can of Foster's while smoking tough and not expect to be in the ER the next morning.



jah!/*d$*

 

Thank you! I appreciate you sticking the whole thing out.

Well, survived, yes. Totally recovered....ehhhh we'll see, haha. Thank you.

That is exactly why I put the 'really long' warning label in the title. Although I almost like your plot better. Good vibes!


jah!/*d$*