We Asked People About the Time They Got Too High
This post originally appeared on VICE UK.
The only time I got too high I was 19. My boyfriend and I had gone to Covent Garden to smoke a joint, I took two tokes, and it just hit me the completely wrong way. I started to feel like I was sinking and, before long, I was fully laid out on the cold ground, unable to move. Trying to open my eyes felt like trying to lift boulders. I was convinced I was going to die outside Slam City Skates. Eventually, he had to carry me into a cab and take me back to my parents’ house, where I had to sneak in and climb two flights of stairs on all fours to my attic bedroom because I still couldn’t stand.
But that’s the thing: Anyone can get too high. It doesn’t matter whether you are a lightweight or a seasoned stoner; sometimes it just creeps on you. Your vision blurs, the room starts spinning, you can’t move or speak, and you just sort of collapse onto the nearest soft fabric.
I spoke to some people who have thoroughly embarrassed themselves because of the devil’s glorious lettuce.
OK, I know this sounds like something from a Seth Rogen movie, but I swear it’s true. I was in Amsterdam with my boyfriend, and we were heading back to our 4-star hotel, fancy as fuck. I had the munchies, so I bought a chicken caesar salad on the way. When we got to the hotel, I asked for cutlery, and they said they would deliver it to the room. A few minutes later, a man with a thick Chinese accent came up and tried to give me teabags and milk. I was trying to say, “Can I have a fork?” and he kept going, “A fuck? A fuck?” I started to laugh, and then my head started spinning. Then I fainted and collapsed on the floor, which caused the room door to slam in his face.
I came to on the floor with the guy knocking and shouting: “HELLO, HELLO, HELLO, HELLO.” This went on for at least 30 seconds, as my boyfriend was too stoned to register what was happening. He got me up onto the bed, made up a lie about how I have this condition that makes me faint, and sent the guy away, saying we didn’t need the fork. By then I was sweating and throwing up everywhere—there was vomit in my hair, and I was star-fished on the bed, stark naked. The next time I came to, the man was inside the room, looking horrified, and trying to cover up his eyes with a fork. We’d forgotten to put the lock back on the door.
The year I moved to London, I went over to a friend’s, specifically to hot-box his tiny bathroom with four other people. We had two joints in rotation. This was very early in my weed-smoking career, so I was fully fried after about ten minutes and asked to be let out. They refused, in the interest of keeping the fumes in the room, so I had to slump on the toilet with a candle in my lap and wait it out. By the time it was over, I was over, too. I don’t remember anything beyond this point, but I’ve since been told I was carried into the garden for fresh air, where I puked, asked where I was, and puked again out of horror that I was in England.
When I was a teenager, I used to live in a very boring suburb outside Leeds. My best friend lived a bit closer to the center of the city than I did and had really chill parents, so on Fridays after school we’d all go ’round to hers. One time, we invited some boys from our school over, too. I heard word that the guy I had a crush on was coming. These guys had some weed and rolled a joint, which I thought was amazing because it was probably the first joint I had ever seen in my life.
I had a few tokes and went upstairs with seasick legs, thinking a tactical vom might sort the situation out. I spent about an hour clinging onto the toilet, feeling the most hammered I’d ever felt—although I’d probably only had one beer before this point. The next morning, I woke up on my friend’s parents’ bed, which I had thrown up all over, feeling absolutely mortified. My friend told me that while I was passed out the guy I liked had come in and tucked me in while I was covered in my own vomit. We never hooked up.
It was a summer night, and I’d been out with some friends just drinking and smoking for hours. At around 2 AM, I decided to head to my girl’s house via a bagel shop. In my extremely waved state, I heavily overestimated how much I could eat and got carried away. I got back to hers and smoked another joint while eating an apple crumble and custard that I’d got to-go and was refusing to share with anyone else. Two bites in, I started to feel a bit green and clammy, the room started spinning, and I knew I was done for. She had a few friends around, so I tried to slip away without being noticed. I just sent her a text saying “imma go nap in the toilet x.” I threw up and passed out on the cold floor tiles that, by this point, were my savior and lord. The worst part was that the bathroom was small, and I’d blocked the door with my unconscious body, so my girlfriend had to break the door down, and everyone spent the rest of the night climbing over me to use the toilet. I crept out the next morning too embarrassed to face her.
I was playing with my band at a Cambridge May Ball, and after my set, I got talking to this girl. By the end of the night, we were both wasted and went back to hers to smoke a joint. I’m still not entirely sure why, but while she was in the toilet, I got completely naked and got into her bed. She looked a bit surprised but laughed it off and asked me to roll a joint, handing me her weed. Wanting to impress her, I put loads of weed in the spliff, and we started smoking. Three tokes in and the room starts spinning, and I realized I’m going to throw up, but I was trying to style it out because I haven’t even kissed this girl yet. I could feel all the color draining from my face, and she asked me if I needed to puke. I told her I was fine, but it was pretty obvious that I wasn’t. She took me to the bathroom and waited outside while I threw up, still stark naked. She was just giggling at the whole thing. Shockingly I managed to pull it back—she gave me a spare toothbrush, and we actually went on to have sex against all odds.
I was 18 and clueless when it came to edibles. My friends and I baked some brownies with about a quarter of an ounce of weed in them and ate them all within ten minutes because we were dumb as shit. At first it started with a nice floaty feeling, but it quickly changed to a really intense, terrible high. I couldn’t move at all and felt like my body was stuck to the sofa with superglue. I texted my mom and told her I was going to die and that I loved her. Then I spent the next two hours trying to feed the crocodile on my Lacoste polo shirt. All jokes aside, it was fucking terrifying.
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"I texted my mom and told her I was going to die and that I loved her. All jokes aside, it was fucking terrifying."