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Bananas. That’s what some folks call bad cannabis seeds—those pale, shriveled little wannabes that never had a chance. You open a fresh pack, expecting fat, dark, tiger-striped beauties, and instead? Bananas. Dead on arrival. It’s a gut punch, especially when you paid good money for ‘em. And yeah, they look like they might sprout, but don’t hold your breath. They won’t. They’re duds. Ghosts of what could’ve been.
Now, real seeds—viable ones—they’ve got weight. You feel it. Roll one between your fingers and it’s got that solid, almost waxy shell. Not brittle. Not soft. Just right. Some growers swear by the float test, dropping seeds in water to see if they sink or float. I’ve done it. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it’s just wishful thinking dressed up as science.
And then there’s the whole feminized vs. regular debate. People get weirdly passionate about it. Like, full-on Reddit flame war levels of passionate. Feminized seeds? Great for growers who don’t want to deal with males. Less risk. More buds. But purists—those crusty, soil-under-the-nails types—they’ll tell you regular seeds are the only way to preserve genetics. “Feminized is cheating,” they say. Maybe. Maybe not. Depends what you’re after. Me? I just want healthy plants that don’t hermie halfway through flower.
Speaking of hermies—those are the real heartbreakers. You think you’ve got a lady, she’s stretching, stacking nodes, smelling like heaven—and then, bam. Balls. Tiny yellow sacs tucked under sugar leaves like some twisted surprise party. You missed one stressor, one light leak, one weird nutrient swing, and now she’s throwing pollen like confetti. That’s where banana seeds come from, by the way. Hermies. Self-pollinated nightmares. You can grow them, sure, but why would you? It’s like planting regret.
Seed banks, man. Some are legit. Others? Snake oil in a shiny package. They’ll slap a flashy name on a strain—Purple Space Diesel Auto Fem XXL—and charge you $20 a pop. And you buy it, because it sounds cool. But unless you know the breeder, unless you’ve seen the grow journals, it’s a gamble. Like buying sushi from a gas station. Could be fine. Could ruin your week.
I’ve had seeds that sat in a drawer for five years and still popped like they were fresh. Others, brand new, straight from the pack—nothing. No taproot, no life. Just silence. That’s the thing with seeds. They’re alive, but barely. Like a whisper waiting to be shouted. You treat them right—warmth, moisture, darkness—and they might wake up. Or they might not. No guarantees. That’s part of the magic, I guess. Or the madness.
And don’t even get me started on autos. Autoflowering seeds are like the microwave dinner of cannabis cultivation. Fast, easy, mostly reliable—but you’re not getting a five-star meal. Some people love them. I get it. Short grow time, no need to flip lights, less hassle. But they’re touchy. You mess up early and they don’t forgive. No time to recover. They just keep growing, like a train with no brakes. You get what you get.
So yeah—cannabis seeds. They’re tiny, but they hold everything. Potential. Disappointment. Joy. Frustration. A whole damn plant inside a speck. And you never really know what you’ve got until it breaks open and says hello. Or doesn’t.