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Yeti OG seeds. Damn. Where do I even start?
This isn’t your average backyard bud. No, this one’s got teeth—icy, sticky, loud-as-hell teeth. It’s like someone took the raw, earthy funk of Headband, mashed it up with the cosmic weirdness of OG Kush, and then left it out in the snow for a few decades. You crack open a jar and it’s like… pine needles, diesel fumes, and something almost sweet underneath, like a rotting peach in a leather jacket. Sounds gross? It’s not. It’s perfect.
Growing it? Not for the faint of heart. These plants stretch—like, really stretch. You think you’ve got space, then boom, she’s in the lights, burning her tips like a moth with a death wish. But if you train her right, keep her fed, and don’t baby her too much, she’ll reward you with these fat, frosty colas that look like they’ve been dipped in powdered sugar and regret. Indoor or out, she performs—though I swear she gets wilder under the sun.
And the high? Jesus. It hits you sideways. Not a creeper, not a slap—more like a slow-motion avalanche. First your eyes go heavy, then your thoughts start melting into each other like crayons on a radiator. You’ll forget what you were saying mid-sentence, stare at your cat for twenty minutes, then suddenly remember you were supposed to be making dinner. It’s not couch-lock, exactly. More like couch-meld. You become the couch. The couch becomes you.
Medicinally, people say it helps with pain, insomnia, anxiety… all that. I don’t know. I just know it makes the world quieter. Softer. Like a snowstorm in your brain that hushes all the noise. Sometimes that’s enough.
Oh—and the yield? Decent. Not massive, but respectable. What you lose in quantity, you gain in sheer, face-melting quality. Trichomes like frostbite. Buds dense enough to bruise your knuckles. She’s not a cash cropper’s dream, but for the connoisseur? The weirdo grower who names their plants and sings to them? Yeti OG is church.
One last thing—don’t grow this if you’re trying to be discreet. The smell punches through walls. Through time. Through shame. Your neighbors will know. Your mailman will know. Your ancestors will know.
And they’ll probably be jealous.