How My First Brush With Weed Led to Comical Disaster

“Thou shalt wait at least 90 minutes until partaking in another edible” should be a national law — or even better, a time lock on packages of edibles that only dispenses 1 edible per 90 minutes.

But what’s the fun in that?! you might say — unless you have experienced the hell that is Getting Way The Fuck Too High.

It was my second month in grad school. Joe and Michelle, senior grad students in their final year before they graduated as respectable professors, invited all 15 grad students to go over to theirs that Saturday to “celebrate the hipster culture that is PNW (Pacific Northwest) and partake in some brownies (wink wink, nudge nudge).” Growing up in Singapore, where laws on drugs were so strict that bringing in 15 grams of marijuana meant a mandatory death penalty or life imprisonment with at least 15 strokes of the cane, I grew up with the notion that “all drugs are bad.” From salacious headlines splashed all over local news whenever the rare drug dealer was caught and eventually sentenced to death to shock and horror reports in the media and school posters about “The Dangers of Glue Sniffing” (the worst sort of “drugs” the rare kid uses), that was what permeated Singapore culture. Drugs were synonymous with one’s moral character (They are the dregs of society, my mother admonishes) and class (we aren’t the types to stoop so low as to do drugs!).

Do not pass Go, do not collect $200, straight to the gallows you go.

Thus, I had no opportunity or desire to try any illicit substances.

And yet, when I received the group text invite from Michelle, curiosity got the better of me. What’s the worst that could happen? Probably feels like getting drunk, and then a couple of hours later, I would be none the worst for wear. Unlike the other sensible Asian grad school students who declined the invite, I couldn’t resist. I will try just a little, then come back home in time to prep for my dinner party at 6 pm, a not-a-date with this guy I was crushing on. In anticipation of any screwups, the shrimp was already marinating in the fridge, so all I had to do when I got back was pop it in the oven, cook some pasta, and voila! Dinner is served.

Little did I know God was guffawing when he saw my little planner brain furious at work, thinking: You can try, but you certainly ain’t cooking jackshit tonight!

And so, armed with a bag of Costco cookies and sour cream and onion chips to pay my dues to the hosts, I arrived at their little two-bedroom townhouse, with 10 of us crammed into the hodgepodge of hand me down couches, makeshift crates converted into chairs, and a sad, frayed red bean bag stained muddy brown from years of unknown secretions, and God knows what else from its previous owners.

“Heya Shan, welcome! Grab a brownie and get comfortable,” yelled Joe as he walked past me with a 2 feet tall glass bong and a greenish bag that smelled like the remnants of a skunk orgy. I sat on a foldable chair in the living room and grabbed a seemingly innocuous brownie from the coffee table, then nibbled at the edges like a giant hamster gnawing on a sunflower seed, cautious and excited at the same time.

30 minutes later, and with no effect, I leaned toward Erin and whispered, “How is it supposed to feel? Because nothing seems to be happening.” “It makes you feel stoned,” she replied, although, at the time, I did not know what it meant. It was only much later that I realized weed was much more than that. In clinical studies, researchers have found that marijuana can help alleviate symptoms of anxiety and depression and has a positive effect on stress reduction and issues such as insomnia and various anxiety disorders — all of which we neurotic grad students could benefit from. “Here, have another piece,” Erin drawled as she passed the plate of brownies to me. I ate one, and then the greedy gremlin in me looked around furtively and quickly popped a second brownie in my mouth for good measure.

90 minutes later, none of us were high, and we started bitching. Joe’s dealer must have ripped him off; we might as well smoke it from the bong to see if it’s weed when I realized:

The clock on the wall is melting.

Not only was it melting, but it was also sliding off the wall while the staircase warped and expanded like a Carnival funhouse mirror, distorted and squished, a scene straight out of a Salvador Dali painting, except this, was REAL. Sweat broke out over my brow, and in a desperate attempt to get my shit together, I decided to head to the bathroom and splash my face with cold water to try and sober me up.

Except I did not know how to walk.

Oh God oh shit I need to go pee; I don’t know how to use my legs; I can’t hold it in; I moan inwardly, clearly forgotten my primary purpose for the bathroom less than 15 seconds ago. The next thing I knew, I was on the couch watching reruns of SNL. Then I am in the kitchen munching on chips beside Lauren and Joe, with no memory of SNL, how I got to the kitchen, or why the bag of chips was in my hand, crunch crunch crunch, but man, this is tasty as fuck, crunch crunch crunch.

One of the disconcerting effects of these brownies is the feeling that time has become untethered to reality. This is caused by cannabis interfering with the neurons responsible for your internal clock and circadian rhythm, causing the neurons to fire erratically and disrupting our sense of time. As I stood there stuffing my face with more chips, I had this uncomfortable feeling that at least an hour had passed, and it was time to rejoin the group in the living room. I slurred to them both, “heyyyy man, we havesh been heresh for a goooood hour; maybe we should go baccck to the livinsh room and be sociaaable.” Joe stares at me like I am nuts and goes,

“What are you talking about? You just came in here with me 3 minutes ago.”

I look down at my watch, but to my horror, my watch starts melting and shape-shifting around my wrist, and the floor beneath my feet starts to give way to a black hole that was swallowing my feet. My heart starts pounding out of my chest as my anxiety shoots sky-high, confused by this new reality that was frightening and unpredictable, while the same message loops in my head: this black shit is gonna swallow me up, and I am gonna die. THC, the primary psychoactive compound in marijuana, reduces anxiety at lower doses, but too high a dose can increase anxiety and paranoia. It was only much later when I sobered up did I find this helpful trick: When one feels too high, eating a spoonful of black pepper takes the high down quickly since it has terpenes that bind to THC, which creates a calming, therapeutic effect.

However, at that moment, I was incapable of doing a Google search on my phone, much less type. I needed to get back to the safety and comfort of my own home. Now.

So with nary a word of goodbye, not that anyone would notice as they were sprawled out every which way in the living room: some nodding to imaginary music and others laughing hysterically at some unknown random thought, I stumbled out of the townhouse into the cool autumn air without my coat, my brows furrowed as I focused all my energies on placing one leaden foot in front of the other as fast as I could.

From afar, I looked like a drunken mad man, stumbling this way and that, hunched over and shouting words of encouragement to my legs while beating my chest: You can do this, feet! Come on!!! Except what came out of my mouth was: “mmmmfshreofeffeeeeee! Hmmmmmprhh oooonnnnn!” while I staggered and lurched forward, sideways, and back.

When I finally stumbled the two blocks home, some part of my brain managed to send a somewhat coherent, if curt, text to cancel dinner plans with my not-a-date. It was barely 5 pm when I tossed my phone to the side, stumbled into bed, and pulled the covers over my head.

I only woke up the next day at 9.