This is, by far, the worst crap, er, crop I’ve ever grown. Stoopid spider mites come back every three days. I’ve hit them will sulfur, and organic sprays that won’t hurt the delicate THC crystals growing within. But still the yellow specks remain and all I want to do is take a high pressure hose to the girls and wash them away. But there’s shag carpet under that blacked visqueened floor, and pretty wallpaper behind that sheetrocked wall. I have no firehose.
It’s obvious to any grower that I didn’t provide enough nutrients during vegetative growth. The girls are tall and skinny, gangly awkward. They bend and fall over – like drunken sorority sisters. “I should have raised them better.”
But just like anything, including children, if you take your eyes of them for a minute, all hell beaks loose. Whatever you pay attention to, gets the most focus. Lately I’ve been too distracted working with the new gangeprenuers, networking with other people trying to find their way under I-502. Today I spoke to a woman looking for 4,000 feet of warehouse space; another needs more security cameras to pass inspection – within 24 hours. I want to help this new industry succeed. Unfortunately, this may be a long and bumpy ride. I only hope my crop can take it!