I laid, naked, on the tile floor of my bathroom, alternating between shivering and sweating, dry-heaving and sobbing while my entire body twitched involuntarily. This had been going on for hours, and I wasn’t sure how much more I could take.
My Friday night started off relatively normal, if having six people under the age of 25 drunk and swimming in your pool is normal. I was not in a party mood, so I nursed one drink for a few hours and hung out in the pool, dodging the occasional mosquito and ignoring the fact that the pool was just a shade too cool to actually be in it at night.
Almost two bottles of tequila were consumed. Beers were shotgunned and the night was dotted with the glow of cigarettes. I floated in the pool, thinking about how hungover everyone was going to be. I reveled in my plans to go to bed soon, wake up early Saturday morning, and clean my garage.
As I toweled off and got ready to go to bed, a friend approached me. “I heard that you were interested in some baked goods,” she said. “Here – take a cookie. They’re really strong, though. I only ate one and I was knocked out for a day.”
Let me digress for a second. When I was 32, I decided to let loose of control a little and try a few new things. I smoked my first cigarette, I had alcohol for the first time since I was 19, and I smoked weed for the first time. Now, at 35, I might drink once or twice a week, smoke a cigarette every now and then when I’m out drinking, and I’ll smoke weed maybe once a month or less. I’m not a habitual consumer of anything that’s unhealthy, except mayonnaise and Oreos. No, not together.
I looked at the tiny, petite girl and thought “Oh, if it knocked her out like that, this will be perfect for someone my size. I’ll eat this cookie, and it will just help me sleep great tonight and I’ll wake up ready to clean my garage!” So she handed me a cookie the size of a manhole cover (may be an exaggeration) and I ate the entire thing.
An hour later, the guests were gone. It was 1 AM and I was laying in bed, playing a game of Scramble when the cookie kicked in. The letters in my game flipped and became their mirror images. My hands looked like they were two-dimensional, as drawn in a comic book, holding my phone. The music I had playing slowed down until it was distorted beyond recognition. I began to see waves of colors on the edge of my vision.
Extreme nausea drove me from my bed. I crawled to the bathroom and propped myself up near the toilet. For what felt like hours, I dry-heaved, tears streaming down my cheeks. My body twitched uncontrollably and sweat poured from my face. The paranoia began to grow. What if this never stopped? Why was I naked? Why didn’t anyone notice I was in pain? What if I died? Was I going to die? What if nobody noticed I died? Why was I naked? What would they say at my funeral? Would everybody laugh? Why is everyone laughing at me? Why was I naked?
I used the trembling remains of my willpower and what I assume to be latent, untapped telekinetic powers to make my phone float from my bedside table to my porcelain-hugging home. It didn’t work, though, which may have been a good thing. The list of names I would have called was long, including my mom, my best friend, my girlfriend, and my roommate, but most importantly, starting with 911. I wanted people in white coats with Indian accents to tell me I was not going to die, that I was going to be okay, that I had superpowers as a result of eating the cookie. But then, right there, amid the hallucinating, the tweaking, and the paranoia, coherence and reason spoke up: “I can’t call 911, I don’t have health insurance.” And that’s when I decided that I was going to make it through the night all on my own while also wondering how many people have actually died because they don’t want to incur the cost of calling 911.
Two days later, and I’m still recovering. The saddest part of the entire experience is that even the thought of eating a cookie makes me nauseous – how can this be possible when I love cookies with all of my heart and stomach and the cockles of my heart and even the sub-cockles area? I’m going to have to slowly re-introduce different varieties of cookies into my life until I’m able to look at a Tupperware filled with giant homemade chocolate chip cookies without running for the porcelain.
But that’s not the worst part. The worst part is telling people that I somehow managed to overdose on marijuana. It’s hard to get any sympathy for what was literally the worst night of my entire life when people can’t stop laughing long enough to actually feel bad for me.
And to preemptively answer any questions:
Yes, I am sure it was just weed. No, I did not know that edibles are more potent. No, I didn’t realize that one cookie has multiple doses. Yes, I know I’m a lightweight. Yes, my vagina is fine, thank you for asking. Yes, you can actually overdose on weed and it’s more common than anyone realizes. No, I don’t mind that you’re laughing at me so hard that you peed yourself a little. And, finally, yes, this really happened, and yes I know it’s ridiculous, and no, I can’t believe it either.