All the cool kids are getting one. So, last week, I got a prescription for medicinal marijuana; not because I smoke very much, but because as a California citizen I can. Smoking pot might still be a federal offense, but I am unemployed with nothing better to do, so, I made the responsible decision to spend my modest savings on a license for drugs.It was maybe the weirdest whim I ever had. A friend of mine referred me to a place where he had gotten his license, so I figured I would check it out. The adventure began with me tentatively approaching the ominous looking club door at the back of the building. There were no signs, so it seemed like a good place to start. Next to the door there was a giant guard (who bared a striking resemblance to Danny McBride) sitting on a motorcycle, smoking a cigarette and looking overly menacing. He obviously knew what I was there for. Instead of telling me where to go he just stared for a good 30 seconds before pointing in the direction of another entrance at the front of the building. He was guarding the actual dispensary; I needed to visit the wizard before being allowed into the Emerald City. When I entered the front lobby (and by lobby I mean an plain white room) many people were already waiting to see the doctor.

People from all walks of life had gathered in this small space - from businessmen to housewives to punk skater kids. Despite our common bond of loving the MJ, no one wanted to make eye contact. So I awkwardly made my way to the front desk (and by front desk, I mean a table and chair) and somewhat shamefully grabbed my new client paperwork. The questionnaire was ridiculous; it listed every possible ailment and asked if I “suffered from any of them.” Let’s see… Headaches? Check. Back aches? Check. Accident-prone? Check. It is unclear what kind of doctor he specifically was. For all I know “doctor” could have just been a nickname that he prints on letterhead. Despite the number of people waiting, my name was called within 10 minutes. Whatever type of medicine it is that he officially practiced, this “doctor” certainly ran an efficient operation. I entered his office (and by office I mean converted broom closet) and noticed that the walls were covered with hand written Bible verses and childlike sketches of Jesus. A chair pivoted around and I was greeted without words by a small, wise looking Filipino man. He actually looked a lot like Yoda.

He proceeded to ask me questions about my headaches, my anxiety, and my clumsiness. He suggested that I might benefit from a specific strain of Sativa as he filled out some paperwork. I was shocked. That was it! No BS, no problems. It was now legal for me to buy pot in the State of California. So, after paying a nominal fee of 60 dollars for the professional consultation, I marched straight back to the other intimidating door (Danny McBride and I were good old buddies now) entered the Emerald City, bought my first legal bag of marijuana. The club was completely different than the front office. It was dimly lit, candles were burning and the walls were covered with random shelves containing bobble head cat sculptures. Bob Marley was playing, and everyone wore a smile. Within the clubs confines, even Fake Danny McBride seemed like a happier person. The club had a smoking lounge for “chill medicating,” so I rolled a celebratory joint and shared it with McBride while we discussed our gratitude for life and autonomy. I was feeling quite good about my decision.

Then I got a call from a private number. It was a lady from an internship I had applied for; she needed me to complete a background check and a drug test by Friday. Fuck.