I force the denial of their own essence upon them as a focusing tool.
Jack doesn’t love you enough to give you a strain recommendation but I do:
Tough love, Trooper. "Give me purple + sticky grown with organic pesticide, please." That's it. That's all. It doesn't have to be overly complicated. You aren't runnin' nine head of horse transmogrified from rats in a stagecoach to take Cinderella to the ball, and it's just a goddam bag of weed.
I can recommend names of strains, sure. "Uncle Remus." That's what they're all named. It's a "strain" for a reason, growing quality weed is back-breaking work, which is why there won't always be purple + sticky available, it doesn't always leave the house.
And, most people think weed is green. It is not. It's the goddam Royal Purple Lotus of Earth, and until that bitch hauled out her second stash from her goddam brassiere... reluctantly... I had never even smelled what real calculus smells like.
("I found it! On the floor!! In the baby's room!!!" Jesus.
Whatever.)
It's a big bada boom difference. I can see why hoarder merchants and their thug enforcers keep the secrets so tight. Even you people -- you, the finest people on Earth, God loves you, all of all of you, and so do I -- don't even fucking know jack or shit.
And I'm not here to tell you. Ask your deep cover tripartite being, if she can ever get the taste of thorazine and all that cockgobbling out of her mouth long enough to have
a goddam conversation. Did they really give her anal herpes? Wow, you guys are
mean... and pay attention,
n'est-ce pas?