A Review of Trash Weed Gummies

It can get you there no matter where you get it from.

I was halfway to my boarding gate at Denver International Airport just beyond the TGI Fridays and not quite to the Cinnabon when the drugs began to take hold.

“Well, turns out those were absolutely some good ones,” I thought as I passed another Hudson News where I hoped to have a book on display someday, which might be possible if I stopped doing irresponsible things like partaking in copious amounts of the Devil’s Lettuce. I could’ve tried (probably in vain) to write hunched over my laptop perched on a tiny tray table during my three-hour flight back to DC, but instead I was going to spend it stoned out of my fucking gourd, hopefully not asleep on the shoulder of a complete stranger.

But luckily, as aforementioned, the marijuana had begun to set in and so I was momentarily (and thankfully) relieved of my feelings that if I didn’t kick shit into gear I was going to die an abject failure.

“Who wants to have the next Great American Novel on a shelf at an airport anyway when you can get high as fuck instead?” I thought, eschewing the absolute fact that having only one of these things and not the other is not et all how the literary world works. I mean, I’ve read some of Ken Kesey’s stuff, all of Hunter S. Thompson’s and also…