It Will Be Rain Tonight

Most people that smoke weed will at some point in their lives experience a ‘whitey’. A ‘whitey’ creeps up on you. They’re stealthy. You hit the jazz woodbines. Just chilling. Then the cold, deathly clamminess arrives as your blood pressure drops and the blood drains out of the capillaries under you skin, leaving that shiny pallor. Dizziness and nausea follow. Before you know it you’re running to the bogs to talk on the great white telephone. If you try and lie down the world starts spinning like you’re riding the Gavitron at Parnham’s; the floor retracts and you helplessly stare at the vortex of your life below.

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