An innocent party-goer transcends time to argue with himself on the immortal question: Is the edible actually wack? And where is my father?

This edible ain’t shit

By: Guy who ate an edible an hour ago

Okay, so you’re me, alright, an upstanding brother of Sigma Sugma Ligma, and you’ve just walked into a box standard Friday night party. You make your way to the kitchen, grab a Claw and spy a plate of brownies and snag yourself the biggest one. Then some dweeb tells you to take it easy. According to them, this edible is “stronger than you think.”
So, obviously, you eat it right in front of his nerd face. Does this guy even know who they’re talking to? You’re talking to the Rush Chair, buddy. If I can tolerate 12 credits a term; 50mg’s won’t even touch me.
First things first: Everything is a recreational drug if you’re real enough. You guys are so limp y’all need Viagra, not edibles. I, however, am that man.
The fact that they even called this an edible is preposterous. It was barely sustenance. These are just snacks, halftime treats served alongside orange slices at children’s soccer games. If you went back in time and gave this to a frail starving Victorian child, I guarantee you they’d say “mid.” I might even give this Gerber Life shit to my kids one day. You know, baby steps.
But don’t get it twisted; this edible is horrible. Want it in Spanish? Horrible. Did they find these brownies on the floor of Hirons? I feel like I honestly have a case to sue whatever dispensary this is from for false advertisement.
An hour rolls by, and I still feel nothing. I might just have a second one, so I can at least have a lucid dream or something, otherwise, this is a waste of time. I grab another brownie square. I can’t believe that dork tried to talk me down. 
I promise you, this edible ain’t shit. Hell, it ain’t anything. I’ll be fine.
I’m scared
By: Same guy an hour later

I am but a leaf on the winds of entropy. The time of writing is 12:37 a.m. PST, but I must present my arguments.

To you, I am merely sedentary on a warm couch staring at a beige wall, but I’ve experienced more than you could ever comprehend. What did they put in this shit? Forty Benadryls, morphine, the Infinity Stones, Allah’s warm embrace?
I have seen the birth and fade of countless galaxies upon the chips of paint. I can see myself from the world’s perspective: looking like the middle photo of an Animorphs book between Homo Erectus and a seal cub. I am blazing the Oregon Trail, and I have dysentery of the mind. Hell, I saw Yahweh, and they were faded too — and I’m not even Jewish. This brownie made me witness another religion’s god.
Don’t be mistaken, what those traitors did to my father was gutless, dishonorable and unforgivable. I will train, hunt them down and avenge the massacre of my father. With this brownie in my veins, it is clear I have been chosen for a higher purpose. No shadow, valley or river will hide the perpetrators from my fury.
I have just received word that my father is alive and still works as an accountant.
Can we call Dominos and order a sandwich where the bread is two pizzas and the filling is five pizzas?
I wonder how many beings along my evolutionary timeline sacrificed their lives to allow me to experience this. All the cells in my body are standing at attention and looking at me.

It’s important to explore all life’s facets, but essential to turn off the faucet before the cup runneth over. This affair with the cosmos leaves me sure: fortune favors foresight. Do not have the second brownie.