Florida High

Southern-Fried and Fully Baked

He doesn’t care if it’s 105 degrees and the air feels like soup —
his only concern is if the lighter still works.
This guy isn’t in a rush, he’s in a state.
Higher than the humidity, higher than gas prices, higher than your expectations.
His whole vibe is slow-motion chaos with zero urgency and a permanent half-smirk.

This is the Florida stoner philosopher —
the dude who hotboxes a shed, loses his phone for three days,
and shows up like nothing happened.
He’s smoked in canoes, behind Waffle Houses,
and at least once in a Dollar General bathroom.
He’s out here arguing that Taco Bell is better when it’s warm AND cold,
and you know what? He’s probably right.

He’s not just high — he’s damn near astral projecting.
Every sentence starts with “Dude…” and ends in a long pause
because he forgot what the hell he was talking about.
He’s the guy you call when you want to get dumb, eat 3,000 calories,
and laugh until your ribs hurt.
If you're lucky, he might even pass the bong before passing out mid-sentence.

You don’t get this kind of relaxation from a yoga retreat.
You get it from ditch weed, gas station snacks,
and a complete detachment from anything resembling a schedule.
He’s the reason the couch has a permanent dent and the ashtray has a name.

The guy on this shirt isn’t just stoned. He’s evolved.
Functioning just enough to keep rolling joints
and finding ways to make the A/C colder
while forgetting he turned it off ten minutes ago.

Down South Debauchery doesn’t just drink —
we smoke, float, and melt right into the fuckin’ floor.

Running on resin and regret.