“The rips were fat indeed, but they were as light as gossamer.”

Harlequin has long been a reliable medicinal strain, typically with a 2:1 (or somewhere thereabouts) ratio of CBD to THC. As such, it has a singular balance of soothing relaxation and wakeful bliss. Heylo’s CO2-distilled iteration has a THC content of 21.2% alongside 39.8% CBD, and the resulting high is downright glorious. I’ll get to that, but I first have to mention the inhale was grassy and fresh with a trace of citrus on the exhale that rounded out the mouthfeel. There was a prickle in the back of my throat, and I could feel the impending creep of dry mouth, but the draws were mostly comfortable. In fact, I found myself drawing from my PAX for what felt like longer than usual because the hit was so sheer, lungfuls felt like tepid puffs. I don't know if I should credit that bug/feature to PAX or Heylo, so I’ll just thank both.

Now, I’m down for scenic drives, but the 6+ hours of gassing and braking (including a side quest through Seattle rush hour for an Archie McPhee drop-in) set my calf muscles to cramping something terrible. Cue Harlequin. Decompression from the meandering drive through farmland, big city, and rugged coast was imperative if I was going to be in top form for Forks, so concluding a day of sightseeing with a few fat rips of this pod were critical. The rips were fat indeed, but they were as light as gossamer and left me feeling sparklier than Edward’s trifling behind as he fled Forks to spare Bella from aging alongside his glittering, ageless, vegetarian vampire self. Before long, my legs cramps had evaporated, my hips felt loose and bouncy, and my arms became flexible once again. In no time, I had become one with a Port Angeles motel room davenport, snoozing into my armpit as I dreamed of Sam Uley, alpha of the “wolfpack,” shirtless and wrestling/passionately making out with the buffest of all the sparkly vampires, Emmet Cullen.

“Exhausted from living my absolute best life, the onset hit me like a bucket of warm bathwater.”

The next morning, I puffed Heylo’s Harlequin pod sparingly, letting it guide me through the wonders of the Olympics as the cool mist of the Salish Sea refreshed my vigor. Soon enough we had closed in on infamous Forks. I knew that the primary function of this vape was relaxation and relief, so overindulging would surely lead to the type of naptime foolishness that had no place on my Team Wolfpack schedule of events. I withheld using the vape again until the evening.

Several hours later, when the day was over and I’d filled my proverbial cup with Twilight nostalgia and spent enough time in a car that I felt permanently stuck in a weird crouch, I revisited the pod. In this moment, exhausted from living my absolute best life, the onset hit me like a bucket of warm bathwater. Again, I felt each of my sore spots evaporate into relaxation. I broke open a new sketchbook and began sketching the type of fanart that will never see the light of day while Netflix hummed in my periphery. As I slowly drifted off into my well-earned slumber, I thought, what a perfect end to a perfect day.

I had Harlequin to thank for that wash of euphoric comprehension, without which my day would have ended with the kind of post-vacation grumps you develop after the long-ass car ride home from paradise. No werewolves or sparkle vamps were spotted on this trip (le sigh), but Harlequin transmuted any disappointment into a sweetly melancholy, vaguely queer lust, which more than earns its high rating.