There’s some carry on that Florida Jack. Early on, it was a weeper. Let it flow. I welcome and appreciate any time cannabis makes me emotional. It’s part of the process. It’s part of the high. You have to be ready for it, especially if there are things on your mind worth crying about, worth getting out. Weed can be a very direct, effective, expeditious form of therapy.

I was emotional, but in a happy, satisfied, head-on kind of way. After that, I thought the effect of smoking Florida Jack was fading.

Then the effects unfurled their second act. This is an example of why I need to give each joint enough time to do it’s thing. And why I shouldn’t drink so damned much, ever—but especially when I’m trying to size up a new strain.

I suddenly found myself with nowhere I had to be. No company coming over. Nothing on the to-do list. Time was passing but I had a notebook and a pen and I was sitting on the edge of a hand-me-down twin bed in the back bedroom of this house my in-laws bought ten years ago in the desert. I was writing lyrics to a song no one was ever going to hear, not until now.

Eventually the Florida Jack yields a latent buzz, a pleasant buzz.

Talent neat nettle.

Mettle a molten lantern, this rental’s eternal...