Medical Marijuana Anyone? Now That I was Diagnosed As Crazy, What Next?
One thing I’ve learned is that medical marijuana is one budding industry with a lot of money grabbers.
As last l left this, l had gotten my letter (or l should say bought my letter) from the clinical psychologist who diagnosed me with PTSD, the only non-medical condition of the eight which right now allow you to get a script for medical marijuana.
Well last week, my checkbook again in hand, l visited the local office which validates the diagnosis and assists in applying online for your Medical Marijuana card, issued by the State Health Department, which is your entree to purchasing stuff.
As soon as l said traditional medicine had failed me which is why l was looking into MM, the staff sounded more liberal than a pity party for Hillary. The doctor asked about my symptoms and l repeated the required script like a parrot (anxiety, depression, sleeplessness, body pain) and then added a little pizazz. After all l am a fiction writer and told the doc that my PTSD was the result of a homophobic incident in which a gang of thugs nearly beat the shit out of me coming out of a New York bar. ( Not true. I could blame my PTSD on being brought up by my psychotic, bipolar, Napoleonic mother, but she’s been dead for twelve years.)
They confirmed that while you could order medicinals for delivery, there weren’t currently any dispensaries in Broward County (Fort Lauderdale is the county seat). That’s because dispensaries must be located x feet from a school zone and apparently we got a lot of ‘em. Even with all of us gay men and women here in one of the queerest counties in the U.S., str8’s apparently are still doing a lot of fucking.
The office forwarded me by email a link to the state registry application which seemed to ask for the very same info the office had and then charged me another seventy five dollars to process my app that in turn would lead to my card. (Which by the way needs to be renewed annually.)
Fortunately l won’t have to wait till l get the card to benefit from the potential miracle powers of weed. Not only did those friends of mine who let me try their vapor cig filled with MM oil send me one gratis because they give a shit; my regeneration doc who plants my testosterone pellets in my buttocks to reawaken my libidio could sell me CDS oil made of hemp – just two hundred dollars for a chance at a miracle.
So here l am using MaryJane, which believe it or not l had never tried during my college days, not to get high but try to rid myself of the demons that rake my body with arthritis every morning.
Whether all this is any good or any better than good old Advil, well the jury is still out…