Have you ever smoked bi-polar weed? I call it bi-polar weed because it sends you through lots of different moods as opposed to just the usual laughter (when you even find The Big Band Theory funny); paranoia (hearing people gossiping about you the next room when you’re home alone); and brain-dead (asking your nephew how to open the garden door), etc. At first I thought it was ‘Bunny Boiler Weed’ ’cause don’t think it didn’t send me loco all over my ex’s social networks. Although the term “ex” is very generalised to mean a number of guys that I was involved with, but not actually in a serious relationship with; ‘more than friends, less than boyfriends’ would be apt.

Stage 1: Crazy


Appearing on your NewsFeed looking with his current squeeze… so then you end up all going up his Facebook like some Single White Female shit. It was nuts. And I’m talking like you read all that shit between now and the last three months. And every single tweet he’s ever sent. And every picture he’s uploaded to Instagram. And his new boyfriend too. Nobodies been this jealous since Kelly Brooke found out Thom Evans hooked-up with Jessica Landry. And just when you think you’re about to turn into The Hand That Rocks The Craddle, you realise that it would have been totally wrong to have been with a guy that uses four exclamation marks after every sentence anyway.

Stage 2: Questioning
You get a little dumbfounded as to wether to be relieved that his new boyfriend looks like Trisha on crack, or just offended that androgynous queens tend to be his type. Ouch. I decided relieved and that the reason why we didn’t work was that I was actually too fabulous (and male) for that position. And that he there were clearly respect issues on his part.

Stage 3: Flirtation

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Then you become Casanova. If Casanova got ravaged off a feebly rolled joint before chatting blokes up on Grindr. And people think that Grindr’s slutty but everyone knows the real sluts use Whatsapp; video exchange, no pic cropping and obviously the ‘double-tick when received’ logo make the sluttiness much more instant.

Stage 4: Linguistic Expert
Oh yeah, then it turns you into a total creative wordsmith. Everything that comes into your head is ‘status-worthy’ and every storyline on old episodes of Nip/Tuck is intricate and impressive – when was that EVER the case when you watched it sober? Everything becomes questionable and you even going as far asking those really in-depth philosophical questions:
Why do benders love benders?

Then it kind of wears off and you have to roll another one, dousing your bed sheets with flakes of tobacco and having to redo it like three times because there’s no space for the roach. It’s the saddest stoner of all stoners; the stoner that loves smoking but can’t roll for shit. And as a pointer if you can’t roll then don’t skin up on your pillow. It will fail and you’ll feel like you’ve gone to bed with your head between Paris Hilton’s legs; flakey and smelling of old plants.

When we were chatting about my reunion with weed, my friend Darren asked
“Does your dad know you smoke green in the house?”
Yeah girl, they know when you text them during the weekly shop asking them to pick up £20 worth of munch. They know you’re either smoking pot or going through a break-up. And seen as my bedroom looked like a scene from ‘Dude, Where’s My Car’ – I think it was easier for him to presume the former.

Stage 5: Pscho-Sleep-Chic
Then you run out of nicotine.

“But you have weed, right?” my friend asks me over Facebook Chat.

So he’s gonna teach me how to make a homemade smoking device – Blue Peter Pot-head style – so we can be cyber-stoned together. He’s giving me a list of all the ‘instruments’ I’ll need…

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Cut to me sitting there in my underwear poking a biro through a plastic bottle – it was literally so glamorous I could’ve shit glitter. But I’m informed that the device is “only to be used in emergencies.” What was I gonna do, turn up outside Room Service clutching my Volvic bottle sealed with tin foil and blu tac holding the biro in place. Well, maybe just to see if I could make a few queens cardiac arrest. Anyway, smoking this way no only burns the tips of your fingers, it’s also harsher on your throat than a tour of the set of Coronation Street.

Once it knocks you out the “dreams” come. As if it wasn’t bad enough that I was border-line ‘Fatal Attraction’ when I was awake, I was now loosing all logicality while asleep too. They dreams can consist of:
– Snogging your best mate (had I actually got so fed up of my love life I decided to just get it on with my sister? Or was the weed just trying to see how much it could actually fuck me up?)
– Impregnating your beautician.
– Running naked along a beach made of Lego.
– Falling down the stairs in stiletto heels (but that has actually happened to me before, so this was a legitimate recurring nightmare).

When the morning comes, and the smoke settles (so to speak), you realise that it was definitely the bi-polar weed that sent you perusing through the past and boosted your ego from quietly confident to seductive predator.

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