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Sirius Black seeds. Just the name sounds like a spell, right? Like something whispered in a back alley behind a record store in 1978. These aren’t your average backyard beans. They’ve got a reputation—sticky, dark, a little mysterious. And yeah, they hit hard. Not in a “whoa, man, I’m floating” way. More like a slow, creeping fog that wraps around your brain and says, “Sit down. We’re not going anywhere for a while.”
I’ve grown them once. Maybe twice. Lost track. The plants? Short, squat, moody little bastards. But damn, they’re beautiful. Deep purple hues if you treat them right—cool nights, a little stress, not too much water. They like to be tested. Like they want to know if you’re serious or just playing farmer for the summer.
And the smell—Jesus. It’s not fruity or citrusy or any of that candy-ass stuff. It’s earthy, musky, with this weird sweet rot underneath. Like overripe plums left in a leather bag. You either love it or you don’t. No middle ground.
People say it’s an indica-dominant hybrid. Whatever. Labels are for jars, not plants. What matters is how it makes you feel. And Sirius Black? It makes you feel like you’re sinking into the floor while your thoughts scatter like marbles. Good for pain, they say. Or insomnia. Or just shutting the world up for a few hours. I’ve used it for all three. Worked every time.
Yields aren’t massive, but who cares? You don’t grow this one for weight. You grow it because it’s weird and rare and kind of a pain in the ass. Like a vintage motorcycle that leaks oil but sounds like thunder. It’s not efficient. It’s not practical. It’s just . . . cool.
Oh, and don’t smoke it before a job interview. Or a family dinner. Or anything that requires eye contact, really. This is couch weed. Blanket weed. “Let’s watch that documentary about mushrooms again” weed.
Anyway, if you can find the seeds—grab ’em. They’re not always around. And if you do grow them, be patient. Be gentle. Or don’t. They’ll grow anyway. Just a little meaner.
I like that in a plant.