This is all setup. Parts 2 – 7 are where the insanity starts.
I get that a lot of people shouldn’t smoke weed and drive. I do get that. What I think a lot of people don’t get about that blanket statement is that these are some people’s legit, tested, & proven psych meds… You don’t want me in rush hour without my weed. I’m a courier in one of the top five largest cities in the USA, being in my car during both rush hours, for the full duration of each sometimes. No one cares when I drive on any other medication. No matter what it was. Oxycodone? Sure. Klonopin (same family Xanax or Valium)? “As long as your name’s on the bottle, lil lady!” This is how some of these people think. Most cops know it’s bullshit, but they gotta get that quota in, so they gotta go crap all over people’s lives. So, priorities, amirite?!
I figured having a joint for the way home (no sooner, tho. If I did, and anything went wrong with one of my deliveries… well, there’s no worse feeling than going from relaxed to having your anxiety turned up to 7), in the last hour-ish of the four-hour rush-hour, when sometimes I’d have to drive 45 miles in rush-hour traffic the entire way. It was road-rage-anxiety-from-hell, especially if the day was any less than perfect. If I had a couple puffs (literally, I’m a “two-hitter-quitter – a lightweight), I’d be perfectly fine, jammin’ Dark Side of the Moon (doesn’t need any substances of any kind – it’s just better – cliches and stereotypes are there for a reason mostly, anyway), happily just following that 1983 Yugo or whatever-the-hell-it-is in front of me. Listening to it after such a long break, was like listening to it for the first time, but knowing all of the lyrics, drums, horns (yes, I sing along to the drums & horns), etc. ‘Twas amazing. So naturally, I decided I needed to have the appropriate amount on me, at all times. Sanity and stuff, ya know?
No pipes or bongs, because I can’t swallow those, and that’s just plain dumb. I’m old enough to know better, and I do. I’d always have the pre-rolled joint(s) in one my old/empty prescription bottles, within arm’s reach, in my center console, always in the same cup holder. It’s perfect, because when you wanna put the joint out after two-ish hits, ya just throw it in the prescription bottle & twist the lid closed. It suffocates so quick you pretty much have everything left, and it’s not smashed or wasted because it was left burning. So, hypothetically, if I saw red & blues, my plan was to grab what little contents were in there, break the joint(s) in half, throw them in my mouth, take a sip of water (I ALWAYS need & have my liter squirty bottle, and have since high school), then swallow it all like vitamins. By the truckload if I had to. Hell, I’d practically “trained” for that moment my whole life, come to think of it… That sounded dirty, but it wasn’t meant to. There was absolutely no concern, whether I smelled like it or not. Anyway…
3/9/16, I get a call about midnight to go to Dallas for work. One of old friends lives there. So, when I go, no matter what kind of ridiculous hour I show up, she and her two roommates are kind enough to have me. This has been going on about 2 years and works out perfect. This time, I show up at like 4am, lay on the couch, and watch Netflix. She gets up around 6, we hang out a second, and then she goes to the freezer. She gets something out, comes back, and says, “Hey – these are edibles ehehehehhh… they’re like Reese’s peanut butter cups and they’re fuckin’ awesome,” with an evil ass laugh.
“DOPE!” *gulp* “And tasty! Thankya!!!”
“No problem, you. I’ll probably be back around 6ish, but I’ll probably come home for lunch.”
“Word. ‘Have a nice day, honey!!!'” Doing my best June Cleaver impression.
“Later, bitch! MUAH!” As the Molly sort of salutes, then leaves.
Fairly sure that’s the last thing I remember. I think I went to sleep to some form of standup comedy. Aziz Ansari, if I remember correctly. Molly came home for lunch. According to her, I was dead to the world, and didn’t flinch, apparently. I finally open up my cute lil peepers around 6pm, when she came home for the evening. We smoked, and I remembered I had way more roaches/half joints in my script bottle than I was comfortable driving around with.
Sidenote: I saved them because roaches are the shit. Think of how nasty a cigarette filter looks after a cigarette’s been smoked. I know, I’m not a total dumbass – those look really nasty cuz of tar… but same concept. Anyway, when you smoke pot, instead of tar, you have “resin”, which is always a more powerful high. So you get a few roaches and can basically roll a “super-joint”… I had a plan, just forgot and drove to Dallas with them, along with two joints I rolled for the trip, half of one smoked on the way there and with the Molly, so I had 1.5 joints left. Now that our math lesson is over –
I left her between 5-8ish roaches and half-joints and kept the one and a half. I always go to In-N-Out “on the way” out of Dallas or Fort Worth (no matter where I am around that huge area, I make it “on the way” out), because they’re not in Houston (fight me, animal style is diggity-diggity-DOPE!).
I tore IN-to that burger and got another one to probably eat cold when I got home, “cuz I’m nasty…” (Janet Jackson & I have that in common). Anyway, it’s the normal, awful, flat drive between Dallas and Houston on I-45 it always is. I was ready to get in my BED. My ETA home was 11:30pm. I’d even filled up before I’d ever even got to Molly’s, so that I could literally hop in my car, and go straight home from her house (even In-N-Out is drive-thru, every time but especially this time). I was surprisingly good about training myself not to have to pee. It wasn’t 100% yet, but my theory and I had a rather good success rate. I was wearing black leggings, a grey, long cotton cami (to justify my 37 year, 50 week-old ass wearing leggings… ya see, the long cotton cami covers the ass & cooch, and in my mind, that makes it ok… so there?), my dark green t-shirt over the cami that said “HEDONISM III” in huge, white letters across my chest, and just under the “III” it said “Jamaica” in tiny letters, with the collar cut out (all ‘Flashdance’-like), and, of course, knee-high leather boots. So basically, Klassy as SHITE.
I have the cruise set at a cool 72 mph, just like I had since the speed limit changed from 75 mph to 65 mph about 20 miles back. May sound high, but
1. my dad said if it was under 10mph, the ticket didn’t matter, and the cop was just being a dick. So, I usually always went 5 mph over. Long trips, usually 7 mph-ish over.
2. I’m going through Conroe… literally my hometown. It also happens to be the place my father had retired from, he did everything, but retired as a sergeant in that county’s jail. It was my safe place.
Anyway, I see a state trooper on the feeder (“frontage road” for all you non-Houston, unMurican folk), and he pulls out of the “old DPS building” on my side of the freeway (no telling what the hell that building is now). I think nothing of it because people are going faster than I was. I didn’t break, I’m all normal and good. He gets on the freeway, and since I’m such a “planner,” I rolled all 4 of my windows down halfway, just in case. Cuz if I end up having to open this prescription bottle, it’s gonna be dank as hell. (Sorry, “dank” means that means it smells strong as hell, cuz the crazy good shit always does.) Even with “Reggie” (and that means regular ol’ Mexican dirt weed, which I usually favor), I’m a two-hitter-quitter. It doesn’t take me much, at all. Doesn’t matter, cuz the last time I smoked was at Molly’s, 4ish hours earlier.
So, he’s finally behind me, but in the lane to my left. He took forever to “catch up” to me – didn’t seem like he was interested at all… until he just stayed there. He finally gets behind me, and I abruptly have a huge decision I have to make… like, right NOW!!!
1. I have to either brake and mess up my cruise control (not happening),
2. or be a logical person and pass the 18-wheeler I’m coming up on.
So, I do what a logical, sober person would do, because I consider myself both (most of the time, anyway… but this being one of those times). I kept my speed and passed the 18-wheeler. He followed the whole way, and as soon as I pass the 18-wheeler, there go the red & blues… “Son of a…” I already had my script bottle in hand and windows down, so I open it, get the contents out, break the full joint in half (so I don’t choke), throw the three halves in my mouth, took a sip of water, and swallowed them like freakin’ vitamins (and like a freakin’ champion, I might add) in one smooth-ass swig. BOOM.
During this time, I have my hazards on, so they can’t act like they thought I wasn’t going to pull over and get all ‘overusey’ on me. Montgomery County is crooked as hell, known for it, and that’s just the way it is. My schpewl(<–is that sound a real word? I’m actually asking.) would be something like, “I wanted to get to safety before I pulled over, because when I was little, my dad used to work the night shift patrol, and I used to worry way more than any kid needed to, so… THAT’S what took me so long to pull over… Sir.” What cop with a kid (or no kid, for that matter), especially if they had a daughter, could resist that? Yet, it was the total truth. I would’ve said it to anyone, whether I’d just swallowed a joint and a half or not. Also, I’d never pull over on the shoulder of any freeway, unless my car gave me no choice. It’s just dumb. Anyway, he didn’t even mention it, though. “What had happened was…”
I’ll post Part 2 in a day or two!