I typically don’t smoke during the dead of winter. Smoking etiquette of the current day and age mandates going outside prior to lighting up. Or simply opening a window, if it’s not a public place and one can get away with it. I’m reluctant to do such a thing during that time of year when it’s forty below outside and the high winds sting at least as painfully as spider’s venom. It is then when I switch to edibles. Her Majesty spends that time in her winter palace (i.e. in storage), wrapped in her royal bubblewrap for the annual three-month recess of her official duties.
Don’t get me wrong, edibles are great. There’s just no ceremony and ritual in their use. Digestion is one of the most mundane biological functions there is. That piece of wacky granola I would typically have on a January morning for my wake n’ bake is merely part of a complete breakfast. But no winter ever lasts forever (remember that, kids) and nothing says “spring has sprung” to me quite like that moment I bring Her Majesty out of storage to spark her up for the first time in three months. The wake n’ bake instantly becomes an occasion again. An occasion I almost forgot it was. One that sees songs of migratory birds returning from down south easily mistaken for chattering monkeys once I completely forget what continent I’m on.
hear, hear. after liz becomes worm chow, i nominate my bong to become the new queen of canada. it's a concept that would totally work under our present system pic.twitter.com/8ncvoPkV13
— X. Jupiter Hart (@x_jupiterhart) February 24, 2020
Five and ¾ Senses 