There’s something deeply sinister about Daylight Savings Time. Twice a year, we engage in this bizarre ritual where the government gaslights us into believing an hour has vanished or magically appeared. It’s temporal robbery, a heist on the space-time continuum, and if you’re high when it happens, the entire event feels like a glitch in the Matrix.
Imagine if you will: You take a fat rip off your bong at 1:58 a.m., exhaling a cloud thick enough to block out the moon. You glance at the clock. 1:59. Another toke, another slow-motion exhale. Then suddenly—BAM—it’s 3:00 a.m. Where the hell did 2:00 go? Did you green out and lose time? Did aliens abduct you? No, you just got screwed by Benjamin Franklin’s cruel joke on humanity.
Conversely, in the fall, the opposite happens. You spark up, feeling loose, vibing, convinced it’s time for bed. But no—clocks roll back, and you’re doomed to relive an hour like some kind of stoned Groundhog Day. A whole extra sixty minutes of existing in the void, lost in thought loops like, Wait, does this mean I can smoke again? Is this the same hour? Am I a time traveler?
Nobody benefits from this madness. Cows don’t care. Farmers have GPS. The only people who seem to like it are the smug, power-hungry bureaucrats who get off on making everyone collectively confused twice a year. And yet, we comply like cattle, adjusting our clocks, showing up to work an hour off, groggy and pissed off.
Weed, at least, offers some solace. It softens the time warp, turns it into a cosmic joke instead of a bureaucratic nightmare. Maybe that’s the key—next time the clocks change, don’t fight it. Light up, lean in, and accept that time is an illusion and the universe runs on vibes anyway.
Keep it weird,
