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Paris OG seeds. Man—where do you even start with these? You crack open a pack and it’s like stepping into a velvet-smoke dream. Heavy. Thick. That kind of old-school indica punch that doesn’t ask if you’re ready, it just shows up and sits on your chest. Not in a bad way. More like a weighted blanket made of kush and night.
These seeds? They’re not for the impatient. You’ve gotta coax them, treat them right. They’ll stretch a bit if you let them, but mostly they stay squat—bushy little tanks with leaves like fans and a smell that creeps into your clothes, your walls, your soul. Earthy, piney, with this weird citrus backnote that hits you sideways. Like someone zested a lemon in a forest fire.
I’ve grown them twice. First time was a mess—too much water, not enough light, I was still figuring out my setup. But even then, she gave me something. Dense nugs, sticky as hell, smelled like a jar of old cologne and fresh soil. Second run? Dialed in. She rewarded me. Big time. I’m talking couch-lock city. You smoke this and forget what you were saying mid-sentence. Which, depending on your vibe, is either a blessing or a curse.
Honestly, Paris OG isn’t trendy. It’s not some hyped-up, cookie-crossed, candy-named nonsense. It’s grimy. It’s LA in the early 2000s. It’s the kind of strain that doesn’t care about your Instagram feed. You grow it because you want that real-deal, knock-you-on-your-ass, end-of-the-day kind of smoke. Medicinal? Sure. If your medicine cabinet is full of whiskey and jazz records.
And the seeds themselves—viable as hell. Good germ rates, strong taproots, no weird mutations. You can tell whoever bred these gave a damn. They weren’t just chucking pollen and hoping for the best. There’s intention here. Maybe even love. Or obsession. Hard to tell the difference sometimes.
Would I recommend them? Yeah. But not to everyone. If you’re looking for a fast-flowering, autoflower, plug-and-play kind of deal—move along. Paris OG takes time. She demands attention. But if you’re into that—if you want to grow something that feels like it has history, weight, soul—then yeah. Plant these. Watch them swell. And when harvest comes? Clear your calendar. You’re not going anywhere.
Oh—and don’t let the “Paris” part fool you. This ain’t some delicate French pastry. It’s more like a back-alley espresso with a shot of diesel. You’ve been warned.