Carlo Herrera

Firehouse

It was the summer before my first year of college that I began to frequent a dispensary, off Main Street, Chula Vista. This dispensary was a temple of divine energy in my eyes. The bright green neon numbers encompassing the outside wall. The roasted smell of cannabis that filled both outside and inside. The weird white dude that stood in-front, (probably high as fuck), waving an affirmation sign that read, “You’re Here”. As if I was too high to recognize my own temple. Bitch, I knew where I was. I got stoned quite a ton this summer. One can almost argue that I smoked a literal ton of weed, and the best part of it all was that I was actually getting all my marihuana goodies at an establishment rather than some shady dude named Jerry who sold out of his shitty Honda civic. I want weed sir, not Hepatitis C.