No one in the history of Thanksgiving has ever gone on this walk to “get some fresh air.”
And it always begins the same way: the walk with the cousin.
You know the one. Every family has that cousin—maybe the black-sheep cousin, maybe the cool cousin, maybe the cousin who somehow looks permanently mid-divorce even if they’re single. At some point, after the turkey is in the oven and the house smells like nostalgia and tension, your cousin gives you the look. The unspoken invitation. The “Hey… wanna take a walk?” look.
You step outside, pretending to care about the weather, and within thirty seconds you’re behind the garage or halfway down the block, sparking up something that definitely didn’t come from a dispensary and absolutely didn’t come from Aunt Linda’s garden. This walk is a rite of passage, a generational handshake, a silent pact to face the madness of the day with a slightly altered state of mind.
And once the weed kicks in, everything shifts. The mashed potatoes become a spiritual experience—fluffy clouds of pure emotional support. The stuffing tastes like it was handcrafted by forest spirits. Even the cranberry sauce, —normally a confusing object with the texture of a polite alien—becomes a shimmering jewel you can’t stop admiring. Eating while high at Thanksgiving isn’t gluttony; it’s a heightened sensory pilgrimage.
But the magic isn’t just culinary. Weed shifts your whole emotional landscape. Everything softens, like the volume knob of chaos is gently turned down.
And in that haze of laughter and carbs, something deeper creeps in—gratitude. Not the forced, “go around the table and say something you’re thankful for” kind. The real kind. The quiet, internal swell of appreciation that arrives when you’re high enough to see your life from just a few inches above your own head.
You look around and realize:
Yeah, it’s messy.
Yeah, it’s loud.
Yeah, it’s chaotic, imperfect, and full of characters who drive you insane.
But it’s yours.
And that matters.
The whole day takes on a warm, glowing absurdity. Weed doesn’t fix Thanksgiving—it reveals it. It peels back the layers of stress until all that’s left is food, family, and the weird, wonderful truth that we’re lucky to have either.
And that’s the real heart of it:
Cannabis isn’t just for fun on Thanksgiving—it’s channeling of presence, that’s the gift. It slows the world down enough for you to actually feel the gratitude beneath the noise.
Because once you’re truly looking around at what you have—
you realize it’s enough.
It’s always been enough.
Keep it Weird,
