So I lit up on Good Friday.
Yeah, Good Friday. The day where they say Jesus died for our sins and we’re supposed to be sad, solemn, and sober. No meat, no fun, no weed—like some sort of divine timeout. But guess what? I had weed. And snacks. And absolutely no intention of suffering alongside the Savior.
I rolled a fat one around noon. Peanut Butter Breath. Hits like guilt. And as that first puff wrapped around my brain like a velvet noose, I realized: this is what they should mean by “spiritual experience.”
If Jesus wandered the desert for 40 days, I was about to wander my living room for four hours, searching for meaning, enlightenment, and maybe the remote.
Somewhere between joints and existential dread, I found myself in the backyard, barefoot walking around, asking a squirrel if he believed in miracles. He blinked twice. That’s either a yes or a squirrel seizure. Hard to say…
I know, I know—“John, it’s disrespectful to get baked on the day our Lord and Savior died.” But maybe it’s more disrespectful to waste the day doomscrolling or eating lukewarm fish sticks. At least I was reflecting. Contemplating life. Contemplating if Jesus would’ve had the munchies after resurrecting. Three days in a cave? Yeah, I’d be coming out starving.
But here’s the point: holidays are what we make of them. If some people cry in pews and others take edibles and stare at clouds shaped like angels, who’s to say what’s more sacred?
I honored Good Friday the best way I knew how—by getting incredibly high, feeling all the feels, and thanking the universe for snacks, salvation, and this wild ride called being alive.
And yeah, I’d do it again next year. Same time. Same strain. Holy Ghost OG if I can find it.
Blessings from the weird,
