I toke every once in a great while, usually on the Holidays. Never a lot, just enough to get a bit of a buzz. There was one time, though...
I smoke a joint with my aunt, and realize this is the first time I've ever seriously inhaled a breath of pot smoke. The THC hits me like a Mack truck and I head back home in an absolute haze that feels halfway between coma, halfway between a waking state and that also has a couple sleep-like qualities, I dunno.
I crash in bed and drop wakefulness like a bad habit, basically letting myself go down the rabbit hole. What do I find there? One of my own characters, apparently quite busy critiquing the way my mother was raking the leaves in our previous home's back yard, all the while never lifting a single finger to help.
Now, that character in question is a six feet tall anthropomorphic weasel in a black-and-white suit (think "Reservoir Dogs"), who, for the occasion, was wearing a heavy felt overcoat, a scarf and some leather gloves. Weasel Biggs (as that's his name, how original, hurdur) is a bit of an ass and is so much a stereotypical Italian-American mobster that he'd make James Gandolfini reconsider his role in "The Sopranos".
The guy hasn't worked an honest day in all of his fictitious life, and here he is, lecturing my mom about how she needs to rake the freaking leaves. Whoa.
For the record, I'd like to state that I had never before and never have since dreamt about my characters. I've been so impressed by the dream and so scared by my inability to stay awake that I gave up on my aunt's supercharged pot and generally gave up on chasing a serious buzz when I do smoke.
I smoke a joint with my aunt, and realize this is the first time I've ever seriously inhaled a breath of pot smoke. The THC hits me like a Mack truck and I head back home in an absolute haze that feels halfway between coma, halfway between a waking state and that also has a couple sleep-like qualities, I dunno.
I crash in bed and drop wakefulness like a bad habit, basically letting myself go down the rabbit hole. What do I find there? One of my own characters, apparently quite busy critiquing the way my mother was raking the leaves in our previous home's back yard, all the while never lifting a single finger to help.
Now, that character in question is a six feet tall anthropomorphic weasel in a black-and-white suit (think "Reservoir Dogs"), who, for the occasion, was wearing a heavy felt overcoat, a scarf and some leather gloves. Weasel Biggs (as that's his name, how original, hurdur) is a bit of an ass and is so much a stereotypical Italian-American mobster that he'd make James Gandolfini reconsider his role in "The Sopranos".
The guy hasn't worked an honest day in all of his fictitious life, and here he is, lecturing my mom about how she needs to rake the freaking leaves. Whoa.
For the record, I'd like to state that I had never before and never have since dreamt about my characters. I've been so impressed by the dream and so scared by my inability to stay awake that I gave up on my aunt's supercharged pot and generally gave up on chasing a serious buzz when I do smoke.