Page 19 - You can't Make This Shit Up!

I am a walking cautionary tale
July 31, 2017
“You are not supposed to eat the whole cookie”. – every single person who heard my story
To preface this story I have to state three things. First, I am telling the truth, whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Second, I am still traumatized by this. Lastly, don’t judge. Or do. I honestly don’t care.
So Skee has a medical marijuana card. Not for a hang nail. Not for insomnia. A real life, real doctor medical marijuana card. For his MS. Membership has its privileges.
A few years back I was returning from a girls weekend away. I drove, and on our way back my car broke down. We were about 40 minutes from home and so I called AAA, and then called Skee to come get
us. My hero. He was there in no time.
The car was towed and we all jumped in Skee’s truck to get home. In the center console there was a bag of oreo cookies. My girlfriends and I were rehashing our weekend, and our lack of sleep and so Skee said “have a cookie”. He had “made them” with his “medical oil” and said it would “relax us’. Here is a good place to include that I have only done “the pot” a handful of times, and had already had a couple of not so fun experiences with it. But its legal, its natural and you rarely meet a mean stoner, so I figured, why not. The 3 friends I was with all do “the pot” regularly. So I took a cookie... A whole cookie, popped it in my mouth, and passed the baggie back to my friends.
I knew I was in trouble when I was talking but my voice seemed to be coming from the back seat. I also made Skee drive through Jack in the box. Two very very bad signs of what was to come.
We got home and I went right to my bed. I had no idea that Skee was now on his way to the body shop to figure out what was going on with my car. I also had no idea how I got to my bed and why my dogs were all mad at me. They were looking at me accusingly. Paranoia was seeping in.
I forgot how to breathe. Oh my G-d. This is how I am going to die? Eating an oil soaked oreo cookie? I called my best friend Jen. She assured me, through giggles, that you do not die from “the pot”. She said it would get “fun” if I just relaxed. I hung up and waited to be over taken with laughter. Didn’t happen.
Then “this one” came home. She asked if she could take a bath in my room. “YES”!, I screamed, and scared her. “Stay with me, in my room”. She looked at me confused, and ran the bath water.
Visual of the unfolding situation is needed at this point in the story. Our bath tub was more or less in the middle of our bedroom. The shower is separate on the other side of the room. I am a few feet away, in my bed. I am wearing a t-shirt, a sweatshirt, jeans and socks.
While concentrating on breathing and desperately trying to stop hyperventilating, the nausea hit. And when I say it hit, it was more like a HUGE crash. I sat up, projectile vomited like in the exorcist. I jumped out of bed, and using my sweatshirt as a catch-all, I puked. I threw up with such force, that I peed, going down both legs and into my socks. My poor child watched in horror.