Olivia
Online
Green Bear
@thestickybear
Fiancé to an influencer with a higher perspective 🌿 | Keeping it chill, living life with a little extra peace of mind 🌱 | Lover of good vibes & relaxed times
Joined November 2024
18 Following
12 Followers
59 Posts
Good morning Stoners.
The sun’s out, the bong’s loaded, and the city’s already moving.
Don’t rush
move with intention, float through the noise, and stay lit on your own frequency.
Let today unfold how it needs to. You already woke up winning.
Light up something slow and set the tone.
Blessings all around.
Have a beautiful session.
🛋️💨😚💨
April 22nd.
Not the afterthought.
Not the hangover.
Not the cooldown.
4.22.
4/2TOO.
420 Also.
The continuation of something sacred.
The part the world doesn’t clap for —
but the part that matters most.
This is the settling.
The stillness.
The inhale after the celebration,
when the flame is softer,
but the fire inside?
Still alive.
Still lit.
Because today isn’t for the noise.
It’s for the ones who kept going.
The ones who didn’t just post.
They performed.
They produced.
They provided.
The ones who smoke not to slow down —
but to stay centered
in a world that rarely makes room for stillness.
So today we honor:
The janitor who sparks up in silence
before cleaning a space no one thanks him for.
The barista who shows up smiling
with edibles still warming in her bloodstream.
The teacher who lights one after grading 90 papers
and remembers to breathe.
The warehouse worker who lifts all day
and rolls at night to ease what no one sees.
The artist who creates with resin on their fingertips.
The barber with clippers in one hand
and a roach in the ashtray.
The nurse who lights up her joint after saving a life.
The student who studies with discipline
and takes mindful pulls between pages.
The single mother who bathes her babies,
closes the door,
then rolls something just for herself —
not to escape motherhood,
but to survive it with grace.
The dad who doesn’t speak much,
but finds a whole universe in the ritual of packing a bowl.
The landscaper.
The Lyft driver.
The painter.
The welder.
The restaurant server who holds down a double shift
and still rolls one on break.
The construction worker who meditates with smoke
instead of a mat.
The night-shift security guard.
The DJ who brings joy to strangers.
The CNA who holds the hands of the elderly.
The tattoo artist who puts pain into beauty,
ink into legacy.
The bus driver.
The receptionist.
The custodian.
The call center rep with dreams no one asks about.
The line cook in the back of the kitchen
who doesn’t say much
but always has the best weed.
This is for you.
Because when they talk about stoners,
they never picture you.
But maybe they should.
You are the proof
that the plant doesn’t dull the light —
it illuminates the path.
You’ve been called lazy.
Slow.
Burnt out.
Unfocused.
But the truth?
You’re more present than most.
More patient.
More peaceful.
More in tune
with a world too loud for the soul.
You don’t smoke to disappear.
You smoke to stay grounded.
To stay kind.
To stay connected to the part of you
that still believes in something softer.
So today,
we light up not in rebellion —
but in ritual.
Not to fade away —
but to shine inward.
This is your day.
The day of the quiet carrier.
The everyday stoner.
The high-functioning, high-vibrational,
real-life stoner
who never gets the shout-out
because you never needed it.
But we see you now.
We hear you breathing.
We honor your balance.
Let the blunt feel holy today.
Let the session feel sacred.
Let your exhale be your thank you
to the universe
for making space for people like you.
Happy April 22nd.
Happy 42TOO.
This is not the come-down.
This is the calm rise.
This is the real culture.
#42TOO #422 #ForTheEverydayStoner #SacredPlant #TheCultureContinues #StillHighStillHere
420… One More Time.
4/21/MoreTime
4:21MoreTime
Created by TezzyStuckSoHigh
💨🛋️🔥
⸻
Yesterday was the storm.
Today… is the slow drift back to Earth.
April 21st — Four-Twenty-One.
Not a typo. Not a mistake.
But the afterglow of a cultural holiday that don’t need validation.
This one’s for the brave lungs that made it.
For the folks who survived the gauntlet of smoke circles, gravity bongs, dab rig duels, edibles from the underworld, and that one mysterious joint nobody claimed but everyone hit.
We salute the legends who paved the path with rolling papers and good vibes:
Snoop Dogg. Willie Nelson. Wiz Khalifa. Bob Marley. Seth Rogen. Cheech & Chong.
Redman. Method Man. B-Real. Cypress Hill. Kid Cudi.
Even the fictional icons — Smokey from Friday, Harold & Kumar, The Dude, Thurgood Jenkins from Half Baked, Jay & Silent Bob.
Today, stoner cinema is still rolling:
How High, Pineapple Express, Up in Smoke, Friday, Mac & Devin Go to High School, The Big Lebowski, Half Baked, Dazed and Confused — all queued up somewhere, smoke in the air and feet on the couch.
Because 4/21…
That’s when you wake up still full from the munchies,
still foggy from the cloud,
still smiling from the sesh.
It’s for the ones who whispered “one more hit”
…and somehow meant it 12 more times.
It’s the precursor to 4/20 now — the lazy aftermath,
the day the couch really earns its stripes,
the day we recognize not just the smoke,
but the stamina.
420… one more time.
Because one day was never enough for this lifestyle.
Happy 4/21MoreTime, stoners.
We’re still here. Still lit. Still stuck.
💨🛋️🫨
Good night, stoners.
Nashville’s flooding, the river’s rising behind me.
I’m safe on a hill
some aren’t as lucky.
If you’re in the storm, move smart and rest easy.
The couch floats on. 🛋️💨🌊
Good night, stoners we made it through the storm 🌧️
Stay warm, stay dry, stay grounded tonight 🕯️
The couch must float on, no matter the weather 🛋️
Sleep easy. Tomorrow’s a new rise ✨
🫨🛋️The Forbidden Pull ! 🛋️🫨
Created by Tezzy Stuck So High & StuckSide Mike
A Stuck Universe Fable
It wasn’t supposed to be a strange night.
Bud and Bowlo were just out grabbing smoke — regular run, same trusted connect, nothing out of the ordinary.
Until Len pulled something different from the shelf beneath the shelf.
A black pouch. Heat-sealed. No scent.
Only a single faded sticker on the corner:
Item #403-NQ
USE NOT ADVISED
RESTRICTED — JUNE 2006
“What is it?” Bud asked.
Len didn’t look at him.
“Old. One of one. Found, not bred. Can’t even say what it is anymore.”
No strain name. No story. Just silence.
He didn’t recommend it.
But he didn’t stop them either.
⸻
Back home, the pouch sat between them like a dare.
They didn’t open it right away. They just stared — like something in the room had already changed.
There was a hum in the air.
Not mechanical. Not in their heads.
It felt like the energy was waiting for them to decide.
Bowlo finally spoke. “Let’s look it up.”
Old forums. Broken links. Buried posts from names that hadn’t logged in for years.
“403-NQ isn’t weed. It’s a threshold.”
“You don’t get high. You get peeled.”
“Most come back. Some… come back quieter.”
They found just enough to believe it.
Just enough to be afraid.
And still, they rolled — separate joints.
No music. No distractions.
Just silence and the flame.
Bud sparked first.
⸻
It didn’t hit like a high.
It hit like a departure.
The room folded inward.
The couch unraveled beneath him.
Colors deepened, then drained — like the world got tired of pretending to exist.
And then — stillness.
He stood in a vast space of mirrors, infinite versions of himself suspended in place.
Some broken. Some twisted.
One smiling too wide, mouthing something he couldn’t hear.
The silence was heavy. Alive. Watching.
Then came the figure.
Not a clown. But close.
Too tall. Too smooth. A grin like a mask. Its voice was both inside him and across the room.
“You’ve worked so hard to be liked,” it said.
“Let’s see what you are without applause.”
The mirrors flickered.
The reflections moved without him.
One sat cross-legged. One curled into a ball. One walked closer… and reached out.
Bud turned to run.
But the space moved with him — like it knew he didn’t want to see what came next.
⸻
Back on the couch, Bowlo watched Bud freeze.
No blinking. No breath for a few seconds. Just stillness, like his body was waiting for his mind to return.
Bowlo took a breath.
And hit 403-NQ.
⸻
His trip started slower.
A hallway.
Lit by something he couldn’t name — not light, not memory, but something between the two.
Each door he passed whispered old truths.
Ones he’d buried.
Ones he’d dressed up as strength.
He reached one door marked “Pride.”
Opened it.
Inside, he saw himself — not high, not confident, not collected — just tired. Carrying too much. Saying too little.
Then, in the mirror on the far wall…
The clown.
Wearing his own face.
“You don’t need help getting stuck,” it said.
“You need permission to let go.”
And in that moment, Bowlo did.
He stopped holding the version of himself he thought he had to protect.
Stopped trying to be the strong one.
Stopped pretending he wasn’t afraid of being seen.
And the hallway faded.
⸻
They both came back at the same time.
Eyes open. Still quiet.
Different.
The pouch was gone.
No trace. No burn. No ash.
Just the memory of what they saw… and the weight of knowing it wasn’t a trip.
It was a reckoning.
Item 403-NQ doesn’t take you somewhere else.
It shows you what you’ve been avoiding.
And if you’re not ready to meet that version of yourself…
Don’t take the pull.
Good morning stoners 💨
It’s a slow start, and a grey day over Nashville ☁️
But even with cloudy skies, the mission stays the same ✅
Move with intention, stay lifted, and let the vibe guide you today 🛋️✨
So this is how those 2 met 🛋️🔥
Bud & Bowlo ☘️🥣
The First Shift
A Stoner Story 🛋️💨
Created by: TezzyStuckSoHigh & StuckSideMike
A Stuck Fable – A Bond Forged in Smoke
They met at a place called The Ember Table.
High-end edible dining. Plates infused, servers pressed, playlists curated. The kind of restaurant where guests whispered about terpenes the way sommeliers whispered about wine.
Bud worked front of house.
Polished. Precise. Straight posture. The kind of server who folded napkins the same way every time. Every step was measured. Every sentence rehearsed. He took his role seriously — too seriously, some would say.
Then there was Bowlo.
Back of house.
The rhythm behind the chaos.
Flour on his forearms. Towel tossed over his shoulder. Always two steps behind on protocol, but somehow two steps ahead on flavor. Bowlo didn’t follow rules — he followed instinct. Cooked by feel, not timer.
Their first clash happened fast.
Day 1. 7:14 PM. Saturday rush.
Bud rang the bell twice. Table 12 had been waiting 22 minutes. VIP guests. Pre-paid for a five-course pairing. Bud leaned toward the pass.
“I need the entrées now. I’ve already reset the pacing twice.”
Bowlo didn’t look up. “We plate when it’s ready. Not when it’s convenient.”
Bud exhaled slowly. “It’s not about convenience. It’s about timing. You’re throwing off the service flow.”
Bowlo finally turned. “No, what’s throwing off the flow is you hovering over my station like you run both sides of the building.”
Bud’s jaw tensed. “I’m not here to micromanage. I’m here to prevent comped meals.”
“Oh, so you’re management now?” Bowlo raised an eyebrow. “Must’ve missed the memo.”
“I’m trying to help.”
“Then step back.”
Voices were rising. Other staff turned to look. The air in the kitchen tightened like a pressure cooker.
Someone whispered, “Yo, they about to throw hands over infused mushrooms?”
Before it could go further, the head hostess stepped in.
“Both of you — break. Now. Outside. I don’t care if you stand in silence, just don’t do it in my kitchen.”
Bud wiped his hands. Bowlo tossed his towel.
They walked out the back door without a word.
7:36 PM. Behind The Ember Table.
Silence.
Cold breeze. Distant city noise. The hum of a delivery truck idling nearby.
Bud leaned against the wall. Bowlo stood a few feet away.
After a long pause, Bud pulled something from his apron.
A thin jay.
Smooth twist. No label. No words.
He lit it. Took one slow pull.
Then he held it out.
Bowlo glanced over.
“What’s that?”
“Lemon Lush.”
Bowlo hesitated.
Then stepped forward, took it, and inhaled.
“…Okay. That’s… actually nice.”
They passed it back and forth. The tension dissolved with every pull.
Bud spoke first. “I wasn’t trying to come at you.”
Bowlo nodded. “And I wasn’t trying to snap. Just—when the kitchen’s moving, it’s hard to slow down and explain.”
Bud looked at him. “Same for the floor. We’re juggling plates and people. Sometimes we forget we’re all on the same shift.”
They both laughed. It wasn’t forced.
It felt earned.
That moment — under the backlight of an alley lamp, sharing a jay between tension and truce — that’s when it happened.
The bond.
The plant didn’t just calm them.
It introduced them.
Two different minds.
Two different flows.
One connection.
Bud & Bowlo.
From conflict to clarity.
From silence to spark.
The beginning of a friendship that would outlast every plate, every shift, every loud Saturday night.
This was how it started.
Not with a joke.
Not with a handshake.
But with the plant.
Because some people meet over coffee.
Some meet over arguments.
But the best friendships?
They meet over smoke.
Ash on the Glass ☁️💨
A stoner story created by TezzyStuckSoHigh
The clouds had been rolling in since morning—slow, deliberate, layered in charcoal and violet, stretching across the sky like an old wool blanket. By mid-afternoon, the light had dimmed into a soft grey haze, and the first drop landed on the greenhouse roof with a sound so faint it almost didn’t exist. Then another. Then a rhythm. A soft percussion against the glass.
He stood just outside the greenhouse, boots planted in the damp grass, one hand resting against the frame, the other holding a joint between two fingers. Smoke trailed from the lit tip in loose spirals, carried gently by the wind. It floated around him, mixing with the thick scent of rain in the air—wet soil, pine needles, wild mint, and fresh resin bleeding from the greenhouse behind him.
The cannabis plants inside stood tall and full, heavy with flower, their leaves already beading with moisture from the swelling humidity. The glass panels fogged slightly at the corners, catching the warmth of the air inside while the storm rolled closer. You could see the rows clearly—lush, vibrant, alive. Some of the bigger colas swayed ever so slightly, moved by nothing but the faint pull of pressure in the atmosphere.
Beyond the greenhouse, the river widened out like a silver ribbon cutting through the field. Slow and steady, it reflected the shifting sky—blues and greys and dull golds blurring together as clouds thickened overhead. Thunder rumbled in the distance, low and sleepy, like the earth itself was exhaling.
He took another pull, deep and unbothered. The cherry flared softly in the dim light, casting a warm glow across his knuckles. He didn’t rush the exhale—just let the smoke drift from his mouth like fog, watching it rise and curl into the air before vanishing into the wind.
The ash hung long, fragile, dancing with every slight movement of his hand. He let it stay. There was something peaceful about watching it hold on, just until gravity decided otherwise.
A soft wind moved through the field, pushing the tall grass into gentle waves. The first real gust of the storm carried the scent of distance—mountain rain, cracked bark, faraway trees bending under weight. Lightning blinked across the sky again, brighter now, flashing behind the hills. A few birds cut low across the riverbank, quiet and quick, searching for shelter.
Inside the greenhouse, the windchime swayed—a slow, wooden clack, subtle and grounding. The plants didn’t care about the storm. They breathed it in. They always had.
He tilted his head back, closed his eyes for a second. Felt the smoke in his lungs, felt the weight in his boots, felt the stillness around him. No traffic. No phones. No voices. Just rain starting to fall, steady and patient, tapping the glass behind him like a lullaby.
The ash finally slipped off the joint and drifted toward the grass.
He didn’t even look.
He just stood there, high, quiet, watching the storm come slow across the river—like it wasn’t in a hurry either.
Nashville, it’s time to turn Pot for Potholes into progress.
Tax revenue from the plant could help repair our roads and rebuild our cities.
Support the movement by reposting and spreading awareness. Let’s pave the way for a better Tennessee.
🫨🛋️
https://t.co/3rK0zC1m7L
#PotForPotholes #FixOurRoads #NashvilleStrong
Goodnight to the stoners…
• who smoked too much 💨
• laughed too hard 😂
• and forgot what they were about to say 🫠
Rest easy tomorrow we float again ☁️🛋️✨
@TezzyStuckSoHi NEVER AGAIN lol and thank you God!!! 🫣
🚨“Pay Attention to the Milligrams”🚨
🍯A Sticky Night at Home🍯
Told by: TezzyStuckSoHigh
Based on True Events !
——————————————
🥹🤣🫨🛋️
One night, Sticky Bear and I learned a very important lesson: always read the milligrams before you get bold with the flavors.
We had been buying this brand of gummy edibles from Marley’s Smoke Shop. I was focused on the flavors, not the numbers—thinking I was being smart, trying to decide between citrus, peach, or Wildberry. I picked Wildberry. It sounded good. It felt right.
What I didn’t notice, though, was the part that said 100mg per gummy—printed right there in bold on the bottle.
Now, up until this point, the ones I had been buying were 30mg… but I didn’t know that either. I was just floating through life with blind flavor confidence.
So I ate one gummy in the parking lot. Just one. Drove home—20 minutes, tops—and by the time I got there, I was cooked. Not simmered. Fully baked. That gummy kicked in like it was late for work.
Meanwhile… Sticky Bear ate two.
Also not realizing what 100mg really meant. That’s 200mg in her system, while I’m spiraling off 100. I’m telling you now—it wasn’t a good night for either of us.
I woke up around 5AM, sitting upright on the couch, fully dressed, jacket on, still in the exact position I passed out in. Looked like I had been frozen in time.
Sticky Bear? She somehow made it to bed… but not before praying for two hours straight—asking God to forgive her, to bring her mind back home, and to please let her make it to work the next day.
And that’s the moment we both knew—milligrams matter.
Flavor won’t save you.
⏰“Stuck Between Seconds” ⏰
A Stoner Story
Created by TezzyStuckSoHigh
I didn’t plan to stay long.
It was supposed to be a quick break—a short smoke session before knocking out a few things. Maybe clean up the kitchen, maybe answer a couple texts I’d been dodging all day. I wasn’t even fully settled yet. Just sat on the edge of the couch, window cracked, letting a soft breeze roll in while the lighter clicked.
One pull turned into two. Two turned into four. And somewhere between the smoke rising and the playlist starting, everything around me began to slow.
I didn’t fall into the couch—I just became part of it. A stillness washed over me, quiet and smooth. My body didn’t feel heavy… it just stopped needing to move. The music drifted through the room like it had a purpose. No lyrics—just soft loops, texture, space. The kind of sound that holds the air together.
The TV wasn’t playing anything. Just a dim screen saver bouncing in the background. I caught myself staring at it for what felt like minutes… maybe longer. Each bounce felt deliberate. Like it knew I was watching. Like it was part of the moment too.
Then came the drift.
Not of time—but of thought. Random memories floated in. A trip I forgot I took. A face I hadn’t seen in years. The way the sun used to hit my childhood bedroom window in the morning. Everything came soft, like a warm echo. The kind of memories that don’t knock—they just appear, sit beside you, and say nothing.
My hand was still wrapped around the lighter. I hadn’t noticed until I shifted my fingers. It felt like it belonged there. Familiar. Quiet. A part of the scene.
I told myself I’d get up. Grab some water. Maybe even grab the food I left in the kitchen. But I didn’t move. Not because I couldn’t—but because I didn’t want to disturb whatever this was. The moment. The air. The energy. I was inside something that didn’t want to be interrupted.
The smoke from earlier still hung in the room—slow, soft, moving like it was dreaming. I followed its shape as it rose and curled near the ceiling. I watched it fade into nothing like it had finished what it came to say.
Then I blinked.
The light outside was gone. The breeze was colder. The playlist had restarted. The phone had slipped between the couch cushions. The world had shifted—but I hadn’t. I was still there. Same seat. Same silence. Same stillness.
Somehow hours passed—but nothing felt rushed. It was like time folded in on itself and wrapped me inside a loop. Like I stepped outside the clock and sat in a pocket of peace I didn’t know I needed.
That’s not just being high.
That’s being stuck—
In the best way possible.
@TezzyStuckSoHi Outside! ☀️🌲
@TezzyStuckSoHi The teeth are cracking me up 😂🪥
@TezzyStuckSoHi Oooh a drive-in movie is a good one 💨🍿🥤
Goodnight stoners 💨
May your dreams be loud 🔊
Your ashtrays be empty 🚬
And your stash be full when you wake up 🌿✨
The Last Race to Nevada – Part 7: Heat Under the Desert Moon
Created by : TezzyStuckSoHigh
A Stuck Fable – Based on the true legalization timeline
November 2015 – Outside Klamath Falls, Oregon (Near Nevada border)
Bud Starino hadn’t slept in 42 hours.
Not since the Green Syndicate collapsed — not since whispers of a revenge hit started circling through grower circles. Word on the ground was that Donny Verde didn’t go quietly. He cut a deal. And part of that deal… was Bud’s head.
Bud knew better than to stay in Portland. The moment those news leaks hit, he was already packing. Whiskey Wright and Luna helped clear a trail out through the backroads — no interstates, no paper trail, just burner phones and silence.
His destination?
A drop point on the Nevada border — a ghost ranch owned by an old moonshiner named Cousin Dirk, who owed Bud a favor from way back. It was supposed to be a safehouse. A 48-hour hideout before Bud could disappear again.
But something didn’t feel right.
Not this time.
The Setup – November 6, 2015, 11:22 PM
The moon was full over the high desert. Cold air, dry gravel, and nothing but pine shadows for miles. Bud pulled up in a borrowed ‘84 Bronco, headlights off, engine humming low.
From the outside, the ranch looked untouched — windows intact, porch swing still creaking. But Bud’s instincts were sharp. Too sharp. He didn’t knock. He circled the back fence first.
That’s when he saw it — a boot print in the dirt. Fresh. Wrong size. Not Dirk’s.
Bud hit the deck just as the first shot cracked through the barn wall.
The Ambush
Two men in tactical gear stormed out of the brush, automatic fire lighting the night sky. Bud rolled behind the well pump, returned fire with his .40, and made a break toward the east shed.
A second SUV appeared from the treeline. More suits. More guns. They weren’t cops — but they moved like feds. Private contractors. Hired muscle.
Bud ducked into the shed, reloaded, and radioed one word into his earpiece:
“Whiskey.”
Static.
Then another voice answered — not Whiskey.
“You should’ve stayed in Portland, Starino.”
Bud froze. That voice… it was Navarro. The same DEA agent who raided Bud’s cousin’s grow op in Kentucky back in ‘07 — the same one who got bought off by Syndicate money and disappeared for years.
Now he was here.
And Bud was cornered.
The Escape – 12:31 AM
Smoke filled the shed. They were flushing him out with tear gas. Bud wrapped a wet towel around his face, kicked through a side wall, and made a desperate sprint toward the Bronco.
Tires screeched. Gunfire sparked from behind.
Suddenly, another vehicle crashed through the far gate — a beat-up pickup with floodlights blazing.
It was Luna.
“GET IN!”
Bud dove onto the truck bed just as another round grazed his shoulder. Luna peeled off down the dirt road — pedal smashed, adrenaline pumping.
Behind them, Navarro’s SUV gave chase. Bullets flew. The truck fish-tailed. The Bronco exploded behind them in a fireball that lit the whole valley.
The Road to Nevada
The road was narrow, winding through pitch-black forest. Luna was bleeding from the arm. Bud was holding his shoulder. And behind them, Navarro was still coming.
“We don’t make that pass in two minutes,” Luna said, gasping, “we don’t make it at all.”
Bud didn’t speak.
He just stared at the rising Nevada sign in the distance — flickering under the high beams — and held on tight.
Because what was waiting on the other side… wasn’t just survival.
It was war.
And this time, Bud wasn’t running.
To Be Continued…
The Last Race to Nevada – Part 8 Coming Soon
RT @TezzyStuckSoHi: Good night stoners, 🌙
The Last Race to Oregon – Part 6: The Smoked-Out Syndicate drops in the morning 🛋️
The suits had…
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