The MVP of 2020 Is My Weed Man
It may not alleviate my anxiety as much as turning off the news, but it’s one of the few things I can control these days
Earlier this summer, I somehow convinced myself that I was about to lose my neck.
I wasn’t exactly sure how, but I just knew as punishment for smoking way too much weed lately, my fate was to become a windpipe-less Negro like Heathrow in Tyler Perry’s A Madea Family Funeral. (Sorry to the cultured folks who read that sentence and just cussed me out in their heads, but the shit was on Amazon Prime. It’s not like I’ve been able to go do hoodrat shit with my friends outside in the last six months, so I’ve been watching all types of shit; shout out to Keanu Reeves killing people, P-Valley, and American Gangster: Trap Queens. And if you’re booing and hissing about Amazon Prime: Beloveds, God is working on all of us, and I really needed to get some pandemic-related shit as fast to me and mine as possible.)
My fears eventually caused me to seek medical attention — but not in the form of rushing to urgent care in the middle of the pandemic so I could actively court the ’rona. I have a cousin that happens to not only share my affinity for men and thotty things but has a medical license. He informed me that although I am a damn fool for having him examine my windpipe and the rest of my neck on FaceTime, I could chill. My neck was not about to fall off.
Apparently, that tension in my windpipe and rising stiffness that sometimes felt suffocating wasn’t even the result of smoking a lot of weed. The culprit was anxiety, which weed can help with. I could rest easy, he said, but maybe stop fucking with whatever strain I had been smoking — and just in case I become convinced all over again that I’m dying, I should get an oximeter.
I’ve stopped telling grown people how not to court death. I don’t even bother anymore. I just make sure my delivery man keeps his mask on.